Resident Evil: A Throne Of Blood
by AlexK86
Summary: 'The Family' has seized total control of power. Leon/Helena must return to the BOW-infested city of Detroit to expose their plot while Jill/Chris are sent to Russia to investigate a BOW outpost. This AU Resident Evil story follows the team as they struggle to expose the government conspiracy... Meanwhile, Ada has her own plans. Rated T-M: Gore, Lang, Sex. LeonxHelenaxAda JillxChris
1. Chapter 1: Crystal Night (A Prologue)

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Resident Evil'. All copyright content belongs to Capcom and its respective owners.**

**Note on 'A Throne of Blood': This is an 'Alternate Universe' Resident Evil Fanfic. It is a sequel to my previous story 'Operation Southwoods' which follows Resident Evil 'Nemesis'. Everything after RE3 never happened in this universe. I intend for this to be longer and more epic than the previous instalment, containing a larger cast of characters. Leon Kennedy, Ada Wong, Helena Harper, Jill Valentine, Chris Redfield, and Derek Simmons will all be major characters in this story... There may be other RE characters appearing in the story as well.**

**Note on 'Operation Southwoods': I implore you to go read the previous story. _If you have not, some of the details may be lost of you_, though I try to fill new readers in as much as possible. 'OS' contains all the same characters (except Chris Redfield) and was enthusiastically supported by the FF community.**

**Note on Chapter One: The first chapter is entitled 'Crystal Night (A Prologue)'. Basically it serves to re-cap the events of the previous story and initiate the events of the current one. _Some people may find it to be a little boring, but it's necessary to set the story in motion_.**

**Call for support: Writing the first few chapters will be exceedingly difficult, as I need to make sure all the major plot points and details are accounted for before the story really gets into motion. As such, I'd love it if you could show a ton of support... **

**PLEASE FAVOURITE, FOLLOW, AND REVIEW!**

**Yours Truly,**

**- Alex K.**

* * *

If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well

It were done quickly. If the assassination

Could trammel up the consequence, and catch

With his surcease success; that but this blow

Might be the be-all and the end-all here,

But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,

We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases

We still have judgment here, that we but teach

Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return

To plague th' inventor: this even-handed justice

Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice

To our own lips.

- MacBeth (William Shakespeare)

_In late December, 1998, an explosion rocked the Patrick V MacNamara building in Detroit, Michigan. The explosion not only killed everyone in the building, but released the T-Virus into the city, spurring the first zombie outbreak since the Raccoon City Incident. One of the few survivors of the nightmare which struck my city, I went to Detroit to investigate. The terrorist attack was believed to have been orchestrated by the Iranian government, but I believed that the Umbrella Corporation was behind it. Based off of a tip from Ada Wong, I was informed that the people responsible for the attack planned to kill an FBI investigator, Special Agent Helena Harper. With her aid, we investigated the terrorist attack, soon realising that it was not what either of us had initially believed…_

_As it turned out, the whole incident was orchestrated by a secretive sect working within the US government. Their name: 'The Family'. Their plan was to create a 'false-flag' terrorist attack within the US as a pretext for a war with Iran. Moreover, 'The Family' intended to pass an oppressive national security bill, steeply restricted civil liberties, and to consolidate power within the government. The Counter-Terrorism Authorization Act, or CTAA, would give the federal government unprecedented powers, removing virtually all restrictions on domestic spying. This ambitious group had been working for years to place themselves in positions of high power, recruiting many to their cause, and killing those who threatened their plans._

_After learning this, Helena Harper, Jill Valentine, a journalist by the name of Emma Goodman, and I set out to prevent the war with Iran from taking place, and to expose 'The Family' to the American public. Our plan was partly successful. We managed to publish an article in the press, contradicting the government's claims of Iranian involvement in the Detroit Incident, but were unable to find any outlets who would believe our story of a conspiratorial network working within the government. Since then Goodman and Agent Harper have made efforts to expose the conspirators, but as the latter has had to tread lightly - fearing possible retribution - the former has had her credibility destroyed and now works among the independent press, waging a crusade against 'The Family'._

_And the story gets more complicated still. Another tip, from Ada Wong, claims that the President of the United States will be assassinated on February 1st, 1999… Today. None among us has been able to warn the President, and now we wait to see if this murder will come to fruition. Doubtless, if the President is indeed murdered, the conspirators will come for us - the only people who know of their plot, the only people who can stop them._

_- Leon S. Kennedy (02/01/1999)_

**Resident Evil:**

**A THRONE OF BLOOD**

**Part One**

**Chapter One: Crystal Night (A Prologue)**

Washington, DC (02/01/1999)

A red Sun ducks behind a wall of skyscrapers lining the horizon of downtown DC, casting an orange glow across the sky, wisps of violet streaking outwards between the buildings. The February sunset blankets the city in shadows as daylight comes to a close. In short, sharp gusts, a cold wind blows through the streets. Though Winter's peak has past, a faint veil of snow covers the roads and sidewalks throughout town. From a government building, two Secret Service officers emerge, wearing matching black suits and ties. Their hands folded in front of them, the imposing, square-jawed men look as though they could be brothers if it weren't for their ethnicities. The first is latino, the second black, but they share the same imposing physicality. Broad-shouldered, expressionless, their muscular physiques are apparent through their attire. They lead two men to a black Cadillac parked in front of the building with its driver waiting patiently. The first agent opens the backseat door, while the other stands on the opposite side, blocking the entrance from either side.

The two men they are escorting step up to the vehicle, one in his mid-thirties, the other in his sixties. The young man sports well-coiffed wavy brown hair which stands in stark contrast to his bright green eyes. He's a strikingly attractive man, with an appearance that seems sympathetic and resolute. Charismatic, handsome, dignified, he possesses a kinetic energy rare among his peers. His elder looks his polar opposite. His short white hair sits limply atop his head, thinning to such an extent that his scalp is visible. Through a pair of thin-framed circular glasses, his pale grey eyes seem paradoxically both searching and indifferent. His thin lips twist downward at the edges, creating what looks like a perpetual grimace. The younger of the two places a hand on the elder's shoulder.

"After you," he says with a smile.

The older man nods silently then ducks inside the vehicle, followed by the younger man and the two Secret Service agents. Inside, the Cadillac is spacious, two sets of luxurious leather seat are situated inside facing each other. The elder man, Vice President Richard Chapin, takes a seat on the far side of the vehicle, his back to the tinted window separating the passengers from the driver. The Secret Service take their seats across from them. The younger man presses a button on an armrest near the door, causing an audible click from the overhead speaker.

"Take us to the White House, Rich," he says.

"Right away, Mr President," the driver's voice replies through the speaker.

"And take your time," the Vice President interjects, "the roads are icy."

"Yes, sir."

The speaker clicks once more as President Kaufmann releases the button. He smoothes out the lapel of his suit jacket. Sighing lightly, he crosses his legs, sinking back in his chair. The Cadillac pull out into the street. Looking across at the latino Serviceman he gives him a casual nod.

"Beautiful day, Ramirez, wouldn't you say?" the President asks him with a weary smile.

"Yes, sir," the Serviceman replies.

For the first few moments, no one exchanges any words. President Kauffman sits silently, his head resting against the window, looking up at the sky. Amid the silence, Chapin stirs awkwardly, looking about nervously. As their vehicle turns onto a major artery, the Vice President clears his throat.

"Uh, Mr President?" Chapin says, pausing until he is sure he has Kaufmann's attention.

"Yes?"

"I have to ask you, one more time... to reconsider."

The President shakes his head with a half-hearted smile, turning his attention back to the window.

"I'm sorry, Dick," he begins, watching the streetlights passing by, "I'm settled on this issue."

"This is political suicide, Robert," Chapin insists, "this bill has passed the Senate and the House. The country's in a state of panic… To veto this bill…"

"I can't let the CTAA pass," the President insists, "not with a clear conscious… Not at a time when so many details around the Detroit bombing are so vague."

"Robert… They'll _impeach_ you."

"So be it," the President says, resignedly.

Nodding, Vice President Richard Chapin lets out a sigh.

"So be it," he echoes.

Leaning over, Kaufmann presses the call button once more, the overhead speaker clicking. The President clears his throat to speak his driver.

"Crystal Night," the Vice President says flatly.

The President turns his head to Chapin with an inquisitive expression.

"Pardon?" he asks, his finger sliding off the button.

But as soon as the question is asked, Ramirez pulls a small handgun from inside his jacket. For a moment, the President meets his eyes, looking past the barrel of the gun perplexed. A deafening bang, like a thunderclap, cuts through the air. The bullet tears through Kaufmann's left eyes, exploding out the back of his head - leaving blood and brain splattered around a bullet hole in the window behind. The Cadillac swerves, sending the passengers reeling. The car spins out of control. The President's body falls from its seat to the floor between them. Finally, the Cadillac slams into a parked car at the side of the road, bringing it to a halt. A moment passes as they gather their wits, then Ramirez trains his gun on Kaufmann once more, firing three quick shots into his skull, goring him open. He lowers his gun and turns his gaze on Chapin, but as he does he finds his partner's gun pressed against his temple. A single shot. Ramirez's body falls forward, landing upon the corpse of President Kaufmann.

For a minute, the two men sit silently, looking over the aftermath of the mayhem. Drops of blood are scattered everywhere, on the window and upholstery, even on the roof. Thick puddles of blood spread outward from from the beneath the bodies. Mangled, warped, the President's skull is torn open, bits of shattered skull and chunks of brain matter are visible inside his open head wounds. The pool of blood grows, its edge comes Chapin's shoes, running along the sole. He looks across at the remaining Serviceman, Eugene Smith, who stares back silently. Reaching inside his jacket, the Vice President pulls out a cell phone and dial a number. He presses the phone to his ear, listening for a moment.

"This is the Vice President," he says, "The President has been shot."


	2. Chapter 2: Long Knives

**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Resident Evil'. All copyright content belongs to Capcom and its respective owners.**

******Note on 'Operation Southwoods': I implore you to go read the previous story. _If you have not, some of the details may be lost of you_, though I try to fill new readers in as much as possible. 'OS' contains all the same characters (except Chris Redfield) and was enthusiastically supported by the FF community.**

**Note on Chapter Two: The Second chapter is entitled 'Long Knives' (Shitty title, I know...). I'm still setting up the story at this point, but all major protagonists are introduced in this chapter and there is some action. _Some people may find it to be a little boring, but it's necessary to set the story in motion_.**

**Call for support: The amount of support on the first part was really impressive (considering how short the chapter was, and that none of the main characters were in it). Note: If you want me to reply to your reviews you MUST have an account, otherwise FF won't let me reply. Writing the first few chapters will be exceedingly difficult, as I need to make sure all the major plot points and details are accounted for before the story really gets into motion. As such, I'd love it if you could show a ton of support...**

**PLEASE FAVOURITE, FOLLOW, AND REVIEW!**

**Yours Truly,**

**- Alex K.**

* * *

**Chapter Two: Long Knives**

New York City, NY (02/01/1999)

The sun has fallen. Save only a faint violet light in the Western sky, night has overtaken the city. Leon Kennedy pulls a black sedan into the driveway of a Harlem townhouse. On such short notice, it was the only place he could find. In this poor, predominantly black community he had come and gone over the past few weeks, knowing full well that he would lose his deposit as soon as he was forced to make an abrupt departure. As he turns off the engine, he pulls the keys from the ignition and exits the vehicle. Standing before his humble brick townhouse, he makes his way across the lawn and to the steps to his front door. Two black youths pass by, watching him curiously, his white skin rare in this part of town.

Running his fingers through his hair, he guides the dark blond locks back from his face. The hood of a black sweater rest back over his deep blue, denim jacket. His jacket conceals a 9mm Beretta tucked in a shoulder strap below his left arm. His straight-leg jeans sit atop a pair of black boots, which thud heavily as he wearily climbs to his door. Leon slides his key into the padlock and turns it. The door squeaks as he pushes it open into darkness. Stepping into the darkness he flicks the switch up and down, but the lights don't come on. _'Shit,' _Leon thinks, _'power's out again'_.

Cursing under his breath, he closes the door behind him and turns the lock. Boots still on, he walks into the kitchen which joins the living room of his claustrophobic home. The deep blue light of the night's sky flows in, lighting the kitchen dimly. Grabbing a glass from the countertop he fills it in the sink. Hunched over, a drop of water runs over his finger. For a long moment he stands in the darkness. He furrows his brows.

'_I don't want to have to go through this again,' _Leon thinks, _'Not again. Not so soon after Detroit, after Raccoon City. God, I'm worn out… I need a vacation. But we're in this until the end: Helena, Jill, Emma, and I'._ His thoughts turn to Helena, as they have so often. It was just 72 hours that they had spent together, but it was an emotional roller coaster for both of them. Leon had no idea how to deal with her, no idea how to deal with women in general. But he could still feel her lips on his, when he had thrown her up against the wall and kissed her. He still remember wrenching of her clothes in the heat of the confusion and frustration surrounding the Detroit investigation. Leon told himself again and again that Helena was just another woman, but when he'd had sex with Ada he felt as though he'd cheated on her. _'Just professional,' _he says to himself_, 'Our partnership is just professional'_. Leon draws the glass back and takes a gulp of water, grimacing slightly at its subtle, sour taste.. _'Tomorrow, I'll turn on the news and find that the President is alive and well,' _Leon takes another gulp of water, _'and then I'm getting the fuck out of the States… I'm going on vacation, Italy, maybe Spain'._

Setting his glass down and crossing the kitchen, Leon finds the darkened stairs up to his bedroom. Slowly he climbs them, his boots thumping on the wooden staircase. Practically blinded by the dark, he runs a hand along the wall to keep his way. _'When tomorrow comes,' _he thinks, _'I'll go to the nearest new stand, and find out if the President lives, or if the whole battle starts again'._ Reaching the top he makes his way to a faint blue shaft of light coming from his bedroom door. He pushes it openand steps into his room, then stops. Peripherally he sees the slightest movement among a shadowed corner.

He throws himself backwards as the muted pop of a silenced handgun rings out with a white flash. His back hits the wall. Blinded by the muzzle flash he swiftly draws his side arm and fires back into the room - not intending to hit the target but to buy him time to let his eyes to adjust. Sliding against the wall, he moves aside, training his gun on the door. For a moment there's nothing. _'He's as afraid to make the next move as I am, maybe he was blinded by his own gunshot'_. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment then re-opens them and slowly the hall comes into focus. Listening for movement, Leon can hear his own heartbeat - even the traffic outside - but his assassin seams to be waiting for him. Crouching low, he creeps toward the doorway. _'The shot came from the corner of the room. Partly covered by some hanging clothes. If he hasn't moved…'._ Lunging forward he rolls past the doorway. Another _pop._ Spinning round, he fires blindly into the corner _Bang! Bang! Bang!_ He throws his back against the wall, once more blinded by the flash. This time he hears a gurgling sound, then something being knocked over, and a thud.

Apprehensively, Leon peaks around the corner, seeing a body crawling along the floor. Staying crouched, he inches into the room, but as he nears his assassin he sees his gun has fallen out of reach - lying framed in the blue light coming through his window. Lowering his guns he walks over to the fallen man. Grabbing him by the shoulder he turns him over roughly. Blood drips from his mouth. Three bloody bullet wounds mark his chest - two near the stomach, a third just below his throat. His grab at Leon's jacket, eyes wide with terror. Leon opens his mouth to interrogate him, but before he can ask any question, realises it's futile. Blood bubbles out of the corners of his mouth and soon after his body goes limp.

The faintest sound comes from the doorway. Jolting upright and firing, he looks just in time to see a shadow bolt out of the way. Leon holds his aim on the edge of door.

"If this is how you greet friends," a silken, feminine voice calls from the shadows, "I'd hate to see how you greet your enemies."

'_Ada.'_

"Come in with your hands up!" Leon calls.

Emerging from the doorway, Ada Wong strides forward, her hands held high. The pale light washing over her, Leon sees her satisfied smile and glances over her slender figure. She walks towards him, undeterred by the gun he's pointing at her and drops her arms. Realising that she's not intimidated by his pre-tense of hostility, Leon lowers his gun.

"Were you behind this?" he asks. Ada sighs, and sits on Leon's bed.

"Must we do this _every time_?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Well," Ada starts, looking around his room, "I was just strolling around the neighbourhood when I heard the commotion. I thought I'd let myself in… Hope you don't mind."

Suddenly, the significance of the assassin, of Ada's arrival, dawned on him.

"The President is dead, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid so," Ada says nonchalantly, "Just as I told you."

"So," Leon rises from the body, "It all starts again."

"Mhm."

Leon looks around incredulous as Ada climbs up on his bed, sitting upright, her back against the wall. Cursing under his breath, he runs his hand through his hair.

"_Well?_"

"Well, what?"

"Are you here for any particular purpose?"

"I do think I have some information you may find interesting."

Leon makes an impatient gesture with one hand.

"You're lucky you're good looking," Ada begins, "because you're certainly not _cordial_… There are _two_ things you may want to know… First of all, the Russians and Chinese both have possession of the T-Virus. So far as I know, the Chinese are not yet using the virus. But it has come to my knowledge that the Russians are."

Ada pauses and eyes Leon with a smirk, revelling in his dependence.

"In Eastern Siberia," she continues, "There is a labour camp - formerly, 'Stalin's Guard' - now called 'Tyumen Prison'. The prison is run by a former KGB official, Mikhail Bogrov, a man with a very… _colourful_ past. He's notorious for his very creative methods of torture and his penchant for violence… From what I've hear, he's an absolute psychopath."

"And, what about 'the Family'?" Leon asks.

Ada looks back at him for a moment.

"Everything is in place," she says, "their plans, their agendas, will go forth as planned… Though the war will likely be stayed - at least for the next month. The CTAA will pass, likely in the next few weeks."

"There _must_ be some way to stop them," Leon insists, leaning over the foot of the bed.  
"There are two possible routes, though neither of them are particularly hopeful."

Leon nods for her to proceed. Ada looks around the room searchingly.

"Nice place you got here," Ada says.

"_Ada_," he scolds.

She looks back at him with a playful expression.

"First," she says, "you could storm Tyumen Prison. Capture and interrogate Bogrov, you may be able to trace the T-Virus back to 'The Family'. But the prison will be heavily guarded and strewn with infected. Even if you get him, I'm not sure you could get him to talk."

"And the second?"

"The second is a safer route, though the outcome is even more uncertain. Return to Detroit… Go to the home of Special Agent Shafer, and collect whatever data he may still have within his home. From there, go wherever the leads may take you. But that option is the worse of the two: At this point Detroit has been entirely walled off and the military guards all entrances _and_ patrols the streets. And it's likely that whatever evidence Shafer may had, have they've likely already taken."

"Those are both shitty options," Leon mumbles.

"If you have any better idea…"

Leon puts his hand to his chin as though deep in though. Running a hand over his clean-shaven face, his eyes flicker as he contemplates his situation. _'Damn it,' _Leon takes a step forward then pivots, _'I have to get in contact with the others as soon as possible'._ Grabbing the cellphone from his pocket he flips it open and starts walking from the room.

"Excuse me?" Ada says, giving Leon and expectant glance.

"What?" He stops at the door.

"I don't do this for free."

"Shit," Leon looks around, "What do you want?"

"Well, sweetie," Ada says with a patronising tone, "I'm lying on your bed… Care to venture a guess?"

Leon shakes his head incredulously.

"Are you _serious_? Are you seriously suggesting we have sex with a dead body in the room?"

"Well, we could move it if you'd feel more comfortable," Ada suggests mildly.

Leon shakes his head again and walks from the room.

"Suit yourself," Ada calls to him as he makes his way down the hall, "but don't forget you owe me…"

Sighing, she smoothes out her skirt and whispers to herself.

"I certainly won't."

New York City, NY (02/01/1999)

White curtains flutter from the cool breeze coming in through the open window, flowing in among the deep blue evening light. Silently, Jill Valentine sits below, slumped down in large padded armchair. The significance of the day was not lost on her. '_February 1st,'_ Jill thinks, '_today - assuming Ada's information was correct, is the day the President dies… though, any information that comes through Ada Wong is unreliable at best. Maybe the day passes, and nothing happens'._ Leon had told her, only a few days after they'd decided their mission was finished, that should the President die 'The Family' would come for them, immediately thereafter. Leon, Helena, Emma, and herself would comprise the only living threat to their plans.

She had tried go to sleep early, but to no avail. Until the morning had come, until she received confirmation of his life _or death_, she could do nothing else but wait. So she sits below her bedroom window, looking down at the light pouring in over her bare legs. Crossed at the knee she waves one foot from side-to-side nervously. The winter air runs over her, through her thin night shirt, over her breasts and bare legs, but Jill does no more than fold her arms for warmth. She's accustomed to the cold; and, in any case, too concerned to care. _Should I check the news? _Jill asks herself, then shakes her head and frowns. _'It'll only make me more obsessive'_.

Jill flinches as her cell phone rings. Jolting upright, she glance over at it, resting on her bedside table. She freezes. Another moment and the phone rings again, seeming incredibly loud among the vacuous silence. With apprehension, she rises from her seat and walks over and picks it up. It rings a third time as she brushes her shoulder-length brown hair behind an ear. She presses the answer button and slowly puts the phone to her ear.

"Leon?" Jill says inquisitively.

"Jill," he replies, "the President is dead."

Raising a hand, she rubs her brow, cursing silently.

"Jill?" Leon says after a pause, "did you hear me?"

"Uh, yeah," she answers, "I heard you."

"Do you remember where we were supposed to meet?"

"Yes."

"Good," Leon says, "don't call me again… I'm not sure we can trust our lines."

"Got it."

Without saying goodbye, Leon hangs up the phone. Jill does like wise, though for a moment she stands still contemplating. _'All right, Jill… It's on again'_. Taking a deep breath, she sets the phone back on the table.

"Was that Leon?" a man's voice asks from behind her.

Jill spins around, startled. When she sees who it is, she sighs. Standing in her doorway, the man who has shared her bed the past few days. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he wears a close-fitting white t-shirt and blue jeans. With short, rustled brown hair and a strong, unshaven jaw, he's a ruggedly handsome individual. A faint shaft of light cutting across his face, she sees his eyes look back at her from across the room. He folds his arms.

"Yeah," Jill says to Chris Redfield as she sits on the edge of the bed, looking out the window, "the President is dead… We'll need to pack our things and be out of here as quickly as possible."

New York City, NY (02/01/1999)

Traffic is sparse in this part of town, at this time of day. A few cars stream by, red and yellow lights streaking past. Her hands gripping the steering wheel, Helena checks the rear view mirror. _'Still there… Fuck'._ A black SUV has been trailing her since she left her apartment. _'Are they going to kill me,' _her mind runs over all the possibilities, _'or do they want to follow me to our rendezvous point… and then kill me'. _She decides the latter is more likely. _'I'm safe until I meet with the others… So, do I try to lose them, or do I lead them there and hope we can turn it around on them and kill them first?'_ She guides her long brown hair back with a hand and squints into the rearview mirror. _'There are at least two in there… maybe three, maybe four'._

Her flannel shirt slides off from one bare shoulder. Reaching over she pulls it back up. Beneath the open flannel, she wears a white undershirt, her black bra visible beneath it. With them, a pair of tight blue jeans and beige Timberland boots. It was what she was wearing when she made her hasty departure only an hour prior, when Leon's phone call came. Grabbing her holstered Beretta sidearm, she clipped to her belt, filled a gym bag, and hurried to the location that Leon had pre-arranged. All the details were worked out long in advance. Never over the phone - Leon had insisted on that - but in person. They had prepared for this day for the last month-and-a-half. _'And now the day has come...'_

The light ahead turns red, so Helena slows to a stop. The SUV stops, some fifteen feet back. '_What the hell are they doing? Do they want me to know they're following me?' _But then the SUV slams on the accelerator. The tires squeal, then it bolts forward. Helena steps on the gas, but a moment too late. The SUV crashes into her car. The rear window shatters. She's pushed into the intersection, her car turning sideways as an oncoming vehicle swerves around her. Disoriented, her car slides to a stop, rubbing her neck. '_What the fuck are they doing?' _Helena fumbles for her gun, _'They're gonna kill me right here'._

The doors of the SUV pop open and three armed men step out. Throwing her door open, Helena slips out the other side, putting her car between them. She steals a quick glance. _'Three men,' _ she takes off her gun's safety, _'They're wearing track suits, gold necklaces… They want it to look like a mob hit'_. She knew it would make a plausible story, she had worked on mob investigations in the past. Throwing her body against the side of the vehicle she ducks low. A thunderous boom rings out as a shotgun blast shatters her windshield, sending glass raining down on her. She bolts back up and fires back. She hears the man cry out and his gun clatter to the street. She ducks down as bullet sails through the window, she feels it zip just over her head. The third tries to flank her, coming round the front of her car in a low crouch. She spins towards him and fires two quick shots into his chest as he fires back. With a groan he falls forward, face-planting on the asphalt. Keeping her back against the car, she side steps towards him and kicks the gun from his hand.

For a moment, there is silence. Helena can hear her blood pulsing in her ears. She tries to stay her breath. _'Two down… Just one more'._ Inching up, she peaks through the window then duck as two shots fly through the window. It shatters, the broken pane cascading over her shoulders and scattering across the asphalt.

"Jesus Christ," Helena hisses through clenched teeth.

Looking over to her right, she sees her fallen attacker. His chest rises and falls, breathing softly. _'Shit, he's still alive… Barely, but he's still alive'._ She turns her attention back to her remaining assailant. Staying low, she makes her way to the back of the car - trying to walk as quietly as possible - then pops up. For a moment, her remaining assailant is aimed in the wrong direction. He spins towards her, but a moment too late. Three shots ring out, the bullet wounds exploding near the centre of his chest. Stumbling backwards, he drops his gun then falls to the pavement. Her first attacker rises and clutches his shotgun. Her shot had ripped through his cheek, leaving blood pouring down his track suit. As he raises his gun she puts a final bullet in his chest and he falls back down.

For a long moment, Helena stands silently, her firearm still held out in front of her. Her eyes dart between the three men, but none seem to stir. _'They're all neutralised'._ Helena exhales. Slowly, she lowers her arms, then drops her arms to her sides. In the distance, the sound of sirens reverberate between buildings. _'Shit, Helena, go! GO!'_ She looks at her car. It's been completely decimated. Three windows are blown out and the side is smashed in, smoke rises from beneath its hood. She looks over a the SUV. Apart from the dented bumper it looks immaculate. Reaching through her shattered passenger-side window, she reaches in and grabs a gym bag. Skipping into a jog, she runs over to the SUV, throwing the drivers side open. _'The keys are still in the ignition, the engine's still running'._ Stepping on the gas the car starts forward and she pulls around the scene of the destruction, wondering if her attackers will live or die.

'_And now to our meeting place,' _Helena's heart pounds in her chest, _'This is just the beginning… It only gets worse from here.'_


	3. Chapter 3: Bad Moon Rising

**Disclaimer: All copyright content belongs to Capcom and its respective owners.**

**Note on Chapter Three: WARNING! CONTAINS SEXUAL SUBJECT MATTER! This is the last chapter setting up the story (I promise). There's a lot of dialogue in the chapter so some people may find it a little slow. There will be a cameo in this chapter from a beloved RE character (bet you can't guess who!).**

**Next Chapter: I've already written half of the next chapter... It's exciting because it gives you a glimpse into Ada's backstory. The action also pick up, so people will love it. If you show A LOT OF LOVE, I can have it up by Wednesday.**

**Who's Emma Goodman?: If you are new to my series, you will not recognise my OC, Emma Goodman. She's a journalist who plays an integral role in the series. If you want to know more about her, read my story 'Operation Southwoods'.**

**As Always: Thanks for your support! Please FAV, REVIEW, & FOLLOW!**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Bad Moon Rising**

_I see the bad moon rising_

_I see trouble on the way_

_I see earthquakes and lightnin'_

_I see bad times today_

_I see hurricanes a-blowin'_

_I know the end is comin' soon_

_I fear rivers overflowin'_

_I hear the voice of rage and ruin_

_Hope you got your things together_

_Hope you are quite prepared to die_

_Looks like we're in for nasty weather_

_One eye is taken for an eye_

_Well, don't go around tonight_

_Cuz' it's bound to take your life_

_There's a bad moon on the rise_

_- Bad Moon Rising (Creedence Clearwater Revival)_

Washington, DC (02/02/1999)

'_I hate the smell of hospitals.'_

She had used her press pass to get past the front desk, they'd even given her the appropriate room number. What was immediately striking was the lack of police and Secret Service presence. _'Such a high-level government worker stationed her… And yet, nothing'. _She smoothed out her brown knit sweater with one hand, nervously.

One guard stood in the hallway of the DC hospital, pacing side-to-side restlessly. Emma Goodman found her way around him easily enough. She dodged into a room on her right, then came out a second, then entered the door to the private hospital room at the end. _'Room 274,' _Emma read, _'this is it'. _She closed the door quietly behind her. _'How is it that he was left so poorly guarded?' _Walking to the hospital bed, she bobs with an awkward boyish quality. Her black hair, cascading across her shoulders, a grey streak runs across her bangs. She wears a pair of blue jeans, tall brown leather boots, and her brown knit sweater. Stepping to the side of the hospital bed her pale green eyes, her long sombre face, look down on the man lying before her. _'Eduardo Vasquez,' _she thinks, _'the President's driver'._ He's reclined on the hospital bed with a light blue blanket over top of him. Beside him a heart monitor beeps steadily. The top of his head is wrapped in bandages, covering one eye, the eye lost when the first shot ripped through the window. Blood has soaked through the white bandages. Breathing softly, he seems asleep… or comatose.

Grabbing a chair, she drags it to the side of the man's bed and sits, leaning over him.

"Mr. Vasquez," Emma whispers… There's no reaction.

"Mr. Vasquez," she repeats.

This time, the man stirs slightly. His uncovered eye twitches a little, but doesn't open. Emma places a hand on his shoulder sympathetically. She leans in close.

"Mr. Vasquez."

His eye opens a little and falls on Emma. Vasquez squints, unaccustomed to the light, as he analyses his strange visitor. His lips part and he tries to speak. Nothing comes out.

"Good morning, Mr. Vasquez," she says sympathetically, "My name is Cindy Matthews, I'm a writer for the New York Times… How are you holding up?"

He nods slightly.

"I know you've been through a lot," she continues," but the President's been murdered… I have to ask you a few questions."

"Sure," he replies with a groggy, gravely voice.

"Can you tell me everything that happened that day," she asks, "as best as you remember."

He nods. "Can I get some water?" he asks, his voice raspy.

"Absolutely."

Emma rises from her chair, walking over to a sink in his room. She takes a paper cup from a dispenser and fills it with cool water, then returns to her seat. Handing him the cup, she sits back and tilts her head to the side as he takes a sip. Pausing for a moment, he takes another sip then clears his throat.

"I was sitting in the President's car," he begins, speaking softly, "engine running… The President, Vice-President, and the Secret Service got in. The President told me to return to the White House… Moments after, a shot came through the rear window and struck me… That's the last thing I recall, I'm afraid."

"Do you remember what they were talking about? Did you see anything?"

"No ma'am," he explains, "The window separating me from the passengers is sound proof and tinted. It's a discretionary policy."

'_No wonder he was so lightly guarded,' _Emma thinks, _'he wouldn't have heard anything… And in any case, he's been shot in the head. He's probably been written off as dead'._ But she knits her brows.

"So how did he tell you where to go?" Emma asks.

"They have an intercom in the car," Vasquez answers, "activated on their side."

"I see… So that was the last thing he said to you."

"Yes, ma'am."

Emma nods.

"Alright, Mr Vasquez, thank you for your time. I'm sorry to hear about your injury… I wish you a speedy recovery."

Rising from the chair, Emma turns and makes her way back to the door. As she turns the knob, he raises a hand to halt her and clears his throat.

"Wait," Vasquez says, "that's not the last thing."

Emma walks back to the bed as he drops his arm, nodding for him to continue.

"The intercom came on… But the President said nothing… The Vice President…"

"The Vice President _what_?"

"He said something… but I'm not sure if I heard correctly."

"What - what did you hear?"

"It sounded like he said… Crystal Night."

Washington, DC (02/02/1999)

A tall lamp stands next to a luxurious, canopied bed. It's a downtown DC apartment building, reserved for government officials. Heavily guarded, each room is completely sound-proofed. Reaching beneath the lampshade, Ada Wong clips a small microphone under the bulb. She wears black nail polish, she admires them momentarily then leans over her bedside table. She raises a small digital recording device and presses the record button. She leans close to the microphone.

"Test, test."

The bars on the LED screen bounce up and down, indicating that her recorder is picking up her voice. Ada smiles satisfactorily. She leans on one hip. Barefoot, she wears a long black dress skirt and a scarlet, silk dress shirt. Her lips glisten with light pink lip gloss. Stepping back, she walks to the far side of the room.

"Test, test."

Again, the bars bounce up and down. _'Perfect'._ There's a knock on her door, just as Ada was expecting. Walking over to a large mahogany dresser, she pulls open a drawer and drops the recording device inside. Silently, she slides it closed. As she walks over to the door, there's another knock. Sliding one hand over the knob, she turns it and opens the door. A man stands in the doorway smiling warmly. With peppered brown hair and a goatee, he's not an unattractive man. His mismatched eyes are piercing - one brown, they other grey - and they seem to sparkle the way a lover's sparkle. His well dressed: A long grey waist-coat falls to his knees, beneath it he wears a black vest and silver tie.

"Ada," he says with a grin.

"Simmons," she replies.

Stepping inside, he closes the door behind him. Ada looks back at him with her ambiguous smile, one hand on her hip, the other hanging at he side. Simmons looks over her hungrily.

"It's been far too long," he says.

"It has," Ada replies.

He steps to her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulls her hips to his. Tilting his head, he gives her a slow, passionate kiss. He moans softly and presses his lips to hers once more. Ada puts her arms over his shoulders, crossing her wrists. Simmons' hands slides down from her back and over her firm, voluptuous behind, squeezing slightly. Their lips part, and he moves to her neck, leaving wet kisses across its length. His hand running from back to front, he rubs her crotch over top her skirt. Ada moans softly, almost inaudibly, closing her eyes. _'Back to work, Ada,' _she reminds herself. Allowing him to stroke her a moment longer, she finally snaps to.

"Simmons?" Ada interrupts.

"Call me Derek," he replies between kisses.

"Simmons," she repeats, more assertively, pushing him back slightly.

"What is it?" he says.

Pulling back from his arms, she turns from him, walking to the opposite side of the room. Simmons looks over her long, smooth legs as she walks.

"I have some… _queries_," Ada say, then turns back to face him, "Some questions. About our role here, our place, our future."

His eyes look into hers, curiously.

"What exactly?"

"Relative to The Family," she starts, "You are… what, third, or fourth ranked from the top?"

"I suppose," Simmons replies, watching her closely, "I'm below _The Prince_; Haldeman, Hagel, and Alexander are second tier; Rumsfeld, Emmerich, and myself are next in line… So, I guess I'm third in rank. Why do you ask?"

Ada nods, looking down at the floor searchingly, then back up at him.

"So, Alexander would be directly above you? If he goes, you'd be NSA director?"

"Yeah, but the old bastard has to die first… That geezer will be around a long time."

"Hm," Ada nods slowly, then looks at him unblinking, "but if he _were_ to die?"

Simmons looks back at her, confused, then shakes his head emphatically when he catches her point.

"No, no, no! Don't even _imply_ something like that! You're a good agent, Ada, a _great_ agent; but these people are incredibly powerful… What are you gonna do? You could poison his food, shoot him… But how long will it be before it's tracked back to us? You'd be as good as dead."

"I want to go higher, Simmons."

"Your ambition will get you killed, Ada. Have patience… When the time comes, you'll rise higher and higher. Soon, we'll be at the top. Conspiring against The Family is suicide."

Ada walks to him. She places her hand between his legs, grabbing his erect cock through his pants. She leans in close, her lips right beside his ear.

"You should be the Prince," she whispers.

"In time, my love," he replies, "Alexander will die… Eventually… And then I'll take his place. And one day, I'll be the Prince - and you will be my Princess."

Grabbing her shoulder, Simmons spins her around. One hand wraps around her waist, the other slides over her breast, caressing it through her soft, silken shirt. His free hand undoes the zipper on the side of her skirt. He pulls it down her long legs and lets it fall to the floor, then looks over her for a moment, adoringly. Reaching around, he slides a hand down the front of Ada's black lace panties, running a finger between her moistened lips. She tilts her head back, sighing softly.

"_Mmmmmm,_" Ada lets out a slight laugh, looking back at him over her shoulder.

She grabs the sides of her underwear and shimmies out from them, letting them fall atop her crumples skirt. Walking over to the canopied bed, she crawls on top of it, Simmons watching her hips sway side-to-side as she goes. _'Right where I want him'. _She lowers her shoulders to the bed, raising her back side high in the air, and looks back at him - her eyes seeming to sparkle, her smile knowing. Simmons swallows nervously then climbs on the bed, kneeling behind her and undoing the zipper of his pants hastily. Reaching inside his fly, he pulls out his cock. Gripping it, he slides it between Ada's lips, using her as his own lubricant.

Ada looks back at him smiling as he were the only man in the world. But as he slides inside her, she thinks of Leon.

New York City, NY (02/02/1999)

There are two beds in the dimly lit motel room. Sparsely furnished, there's a recliner by the window and a small tv opposite the beds. The cheap motel room has a musty, seedy smell to it, but they all agreed that it would be a foolish move to check into something more lavish. Here, they could pay in cash, use fake names, require no ID. Near the door, four gym bangs lie, and several jackets hang from a stand. Leon and Helena sit on one bed, and Jill and Chris on the other - facing each other. A myriad of emotions are palpable. Between Chris and Jill, a newly kindled love. Between Leon and Helena, an unspoken tension. Otherwise, they share all the same emotions, suspense, fear, excitement. Chris looks across as Leon soberly, then clears his throat.

"So," Chris says, "what's the plan?"

Leon sighs, shaking his head.

"We need to hear from Emma before we proceed," he answers, "As of now, we have two possible routes… The first is a return to Detroit. To the best of our knowledge, Agent Shafer's apartment has not been destroyed and it's possible that we may find some leads there. Our second option is to go to a prison in Eastern Russia. I have intelligence that suggests that we'll find an agent at Tyumen Prison who holds the T-Virus… He may be able to lead us back to The Family."

"Where did you get this information?" Helena asks.

"Uh… Ada Wong."

"Jesus Christ, Leon," Helena mutters irritably, "_Ada_?"

"Look, she's never misled us when it comes to these kinds of things… Whatever her schemes are, she'd never put us - she's never put _me_ in danger."

'_I know exactly what her schemes are,' _Helena thinks, _'For me, and for Leon.'_

Helena recollects that day on the rooftop of the Johnson building. The day when Ada Wong had held a gun to her head, and would've killed her too, had it not been for a freak occurrence. Ada had her way with Leon as well. Helena wasn't sure which transgression made her hate Ada more. Rarely did a day pass by that she didn't see that woman's face.

"So," Jill interjects, detecting the tension, "I guess one team hits Detroit, and the other team hits Russia."

"But who goes where?" Leon asks.

"Infiltrating a prison," Chris says reluctantly, "That's a tactical operation… Jill and I have the required training. You guys hit Detroit."

Leon nods, the others falling silent. Everyone recognises that Chris is right. _'The Russian mission is out of our league,' _Helena realises.

"Well, we know the generalities," Jill says, "but what about the _specifics_. We need maps, blueprints, etcetera… Emma's good, but I doubt she can get us all the information we need."

"That's a problem," Helen replies, "But I may be able to get some information from the NSA database."

"What do you mean, _you may_?" Chris asks.

"The thing is," Helena sighs, "You can't just ask for any information you want… It has to be part of official business. It needs to be documented and authorised through my higher-ups."

"But you may have a way around it?"

"I have a close friend in the intelligence department. I may be able to coax her into giving me the info I need and keep quiet about it."

"Do it," Leon says.

Washington, DC (02/02/1999)

The grounds of Capitol Hill are crowded. A handful of police stand guard around the building, and within their perimeter, a throng of politicians. Congress members and Senators stand in groups on the the stairs of the building. Expensive suits, grey hair, balding heads, which constitute the American political elite. Among them, a menagerie of media personalities. Reporters from national newspapers and cable news outlets race from one politician to the next, asking about the assassination of the President, about the 'heroism' of the surviving Secret Service officer, and about the possible motives of the man who had shot him. The narrative was already forming: Ramirez was a anti-American sleeper cell, sympathetic to Islamic jihadists. Apparently they had found 'anti-imperialist' materials in his apartment.

'_Crystal Night'. _Emma Goodman had puzzled over the term since she had left the hospital. _'What does it mean? Does it mean anything?"_ Vasquez had just been shot in the head, he was probably heavily medicated. She had no idea if it was lead, or if it was just an illusion caused by the trauma the driver had incurred. She had come here, because she believed she knew how to find out.

As Emma weaves her way through the crowd, climbing the steps to the front doors of Capitol Hill, she spots a familiar face. With large square, double-bridge glasses and a grey suit, Senator Dennis Graham strikes a defensive pose, faced with a hostile interviewer. His hair, grey-and-white, looks dishevelled in the wind, stray strands waving across his forehead. Senator Graham was portrayed as a kook by the media. A vociferous opponent of what he felt were repressive 'anti-terror' policies, he stood virtually alone in his opposition to the CTAA. Standing aside, Emma listens to the interview for a moment.

"Senator Graham," the female reporter starts with a combative tone, "has the murder of President Kaufmann changed your opinion on the CTAA?"

"I was devastated," Graham starts sullenly, "about the death of -"

"That's not the question," the reporter interjects, "has your opinion changed?"

"Uh… No, no, my opinion remains the same."

"After Raccoon City, Detroit, the murder of President Kaufmann… This is an extremely unpopular position."

"The CTAA has very dangerous implications… If we surrender our civil liberties in the name of national security, the terrorists win."

"Are you afraid that your recalcitrance may cost you your political career?" The question sounded more like a threat, than a honest inquiry.

'_It may cost you more than your career,'_ Emma says to herself as she walks past them. Reaching the top of the stairs she walks through the open doors and into the busy foyer of the Capitol Hill Building. Among the crowded hall, she spots the man she has been looking for. Eugene Smith, the surviving Secret Service officer. The rumours were that Smith would receive the Congressional Medal of Honour as soon as Chapin is sworn in as President. As Emma approaches him, another interviewer is just departing.

"Eugene Smith?" she inquires.

"Yes?"

"Hi, may name is Emma Goodman. I'm a reporter with _The New York Times_," she lied, "I realise the last 24 hours must have been very stressful for you, but I have a few question to ask."

"Shoot," he replies, then fidgets uncomfortably when he realised what he said.

"Obviously," Emma starts, "you're a hero, but I have a few questions… A few things strike me as odd."

"That is?" he asks, guardedly.

"The President was shot multiple times… According to the news. The first shot was point-blank in the face. The bullet went through the window and struck the driver… Presumably, at this point the car swerves and crashes. The remaining shots - which all struck him in the back of the head, from a close distance - must have been fired after the car came to a stop."

He looks at her stone-faced. She pauses to wait for a reaction.

"I was curious," she says, tilting her head to one side, "what _exactly_ took you so long to respond?"

"I can't speak about the event until the proper investigation has concluded."

"I understand," Emma replies, nodding.

"So… Is that all?"

"Uh, there is _one_ last thing," she steps closer to him and scratches her head, she plays her ace, "What does 'Crystal Night' mean?"

For a split-second, she sees a flicker of fear in his eyes, though his face never changes. _'Got him'._ He clears his throat and adjusts his suit jacket.

"Doesn't mean anything to me," he says calmly, "Can I go?"

"Of course, Mr Smith… Thank you for your time."

New York City, NY (02/02/1999)

As the others sit watching her, Helena dials a number on her cell phone. They had all thrown out their current phones - uncertain as to whether they were being tracked - and bought pre-paid cells. Now, Helena stands by the television of the musty hotel room, the phone ringing. After a moment, the NSA operator responds.

"NSA intelligence office D-34," a woman's high-pitched voice says, "Can I get your name and badge number?"

Helena breathes a sigh of relief. It was just the operator she was hoping would answer.

"Yes," she responds, "Special Agent Helena Harper. Badge number: B, thirty-six, two-oh-five, R double-oh-nine."

"Oh, _Helena_," the woman says, her tone suddenly much friendlier, "How can I help you?"

"Hunnigan," Helena starts, "I need some information."

"Absolutely, Agent Harper, does this pertain to an ongoing case?"

"Uh," Helena frowns, placing a hand to her brow, "not exactly."

"Is it official business?" Hunnigan asks.

"No… Uh, no… This is sort of… _extracurricular_."

"Extracurricular?" Hunnigan echoes quizzically.

"That's right."

"Um… Helena, any and all information I provide for you must be documented and authorised through official channels."

"I know, I know… I need you to do me a really big favour, Ingrid. I can't take this project to management - not just yet… So I need to do this all _off-the-books_. You understand?"

"Uh… I don't know, Helena. I could get into serious trouble for something like that."

"Please, Ingrid. This is a very serious issue, a lot of people could die."

"I - I'm sorry. It needs to be official NSA operations."

"It is," Helena insists, "but the whole thing would be compromised if I file the report now."

There's a long silence on the other end.

"Is it a National Security issue?"

"It's a _dire_ National Security issue," Helena says, "I'll file all documentation as soon as possible, but for now we have to keep this between you and me."

Hunnigan's end falls silent for a long moment.

"Okay, Helena," she says at last, "What do you need?"

Ingrid Hunnigan satisfies all of Helena's requests. Chris Redfield goes to the motel's front office, where Hunnigan faxes them a variety of crucial information. When Chris returns he holds a stack of papers in his hand: three pages of information on Mikhail Bogrov, satellite pictures and additional intelligence on Tyumen Prison, a map to the prison, a map of Detroit and the address of Special Agent Anthony Shafer. The intelligence is distributed among them accordingly. Soon after, Chris and Jill leave, determined to catch the first plane to Russia. Leon and Helena left alone, they sit silently for the most part, periodically breaking their silence to discuss their next step.

As the dying orange sunset flows in through the window, Helena sits on the edge of the bed, pulling off her jeans. Drawing her feet out from them, she folds the pants neatly and sets them down beside her. Sliding her flannel shirt from her bare shoulders, she folds it as well and sets it atop her jeans. In her white tank top and white underwear, Helena sighs, folding her arms over her knees and staring at the dark green carpet. Her long brown hair hangs over her face as she seems to lose herself in thought. From the other bed, Leon looks over her for a moment.

"Helena," he says, she looks over at him, "we should sleep in shifts… Can't be too careful."

She nods.

"I'll go first," Leon says.

"No," Helena replies, "we do everything _equally_."

Reaching into the pockets of her folded jeans, she pull out a shiny quarter, holding it up for Leon to see.

"Heads or tails?" she asks.

"Heads."

Helena flicks the coin up in the air. Catching it in her right hand, she slaps it on the back of her left. She draws her hand away and looks down at it.

"Heads," she says, "I'll take the first watch."

Nodding, Leon grabs the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling it up over his head and casting it aside. Faint scars mark his chest: a bullet wound on the upper right side - a wound he received in Raccoon City - a fading pink circle, three line cross his chiselled abs - a memento from his last foray. As he undoes the belt of his jeans, Helena crosses in front of him, her hips swaying provocatively. His piercing blue eyes run the length of her body. Unzipping his jeans, he pulls them off and lays them over his shirt. Helena walks to the window. Bending forward she leans on the sill, looking out into the parking lot. One leg bent slightly, she stands silently, her shapely butt sticking out behind he. _'She's doing this intentionally'. _Leon sees her face reflected in the glass, she's looking back at him.

"Get some sleep, Leon. We have a long day ahead of us."


	4. Chapter 4: Mind & Body

**Disclaimer: All copyright content belongs to Capcom and its respective owners.**

**Short Hiatus: I'll be setting this story aside for a few days. Traffic has been low lately, the reviews and favs have been coming in slowly. Maybe it's the time of year, so I'll set this aside till it picks up... I'll probably upload the next chapter on the Saturday after next.**

**Note on Chapter 4: 'Mind & Body' gives us a glimpse into a character's back story. This is the first story with REAL ACTION in it, which will get even more intense in the next chapter. The chapter mentions someone named 'Johanna'. She'll be in a back story I may work into 'Operation Southwoods'.**

**Who's Your Favourite RE Character?: I'm running a poll on my profile page, pick your 3 fav characters... It may effect this - or future - RE stories.**

**As Always: Please FAV, REVIEW, and FOLLOW!**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Mind & Body**

Beijing, China (Date Unknown)

A picture frame sits on a night stand, its silver frame embossed with roses and speckled with small diamonds. It shows three people: on the left, a distinguished Chinese man in an expensive Gucci suit, on the right a beautiful Japanese woman in a soft green dress and, between them, a girl of ten – in the background, paper dragons sail by and fireworks explode in a rainbow of colours in the dark night's sky. The man is smiling warmly, streaks of grey hair on his head and running through his short, neatly groomed goatee. He looks to be in his fifties, but he is a handsome man never-the-less, and he has an air of dignity about him. His wife is Japanese. She has long, black hair. She's much younger, looking to be in her early twenties. Her smile is beaming, her eyes glittering. The little girl wears a conservative, blue dress – her long black hair cascading over her shoulders. She's pretty, and looks more like her father than her mother, taking from the latter only her wide hazel eyes.

On a bed beside the night stand, the pictured girl sits, clutching a _Hello Kitty_ doll. She's older than she was in the picture, her fourteenth birthday just passed and her Chinese heritage shows much clearer than her Japanese. Beneath her pink t-shirt, the soft hills of developing breasts are just visible. Her room is neatly kept. The walls painted baby-blue, the carpet a deep pink. In a corner of the room, a classical guitar leans up against the wall and a stand with some sheet music. The girl stares at the door with wide, terrified eyes – the muffled screams of a heated argument flowing in through the walls. She jumps as she hears a gunshot ring out from the floor below and squeezes her doll tightly.

The door bursts open, the Japanese woman from the picture runs in, slamming the door closed behind her. She runs to her daughter. Climbing up on the bed beside her, she hugs her tightly.

"Mother," the girl whimpers in Cantonese, looking up at her mom.

"I know," she replies - her Cantonese somewhat strained - rubbing the girl's arm, "Everything will be okay."

Her demeanour betrays her though. Her whole body trembles and her eyes are filled with tears. The girl screams and a tear rolls down her cheek as they hear two more gunshots.

"I won't let anything happen to you," the girl's mother says, as much to herself as to the girl.

"Dad?"

"I -" her mother hesitates. The girl immediately knows. _'He's dead.'_

"Don't let them hurt me," she says to her mother.

"I won't," she replies, "Listen, sweetie. Listen closely. You're going to have to go away."

"_No_," the girl says, shaking her head emphatically.

Placing a hand on her chin, the woman turns the girl's face to her own. In spite of her fear, she manages to compose herself and looks deep into the girl's eyes, her expression grave.

"Yes, yes... You're almost a woman now, you almost have a woman's body. They may spare you, they may _want_ you... You have to use your _mind_, your _body_. No matter what, do what they say. Keep your emotions hidden, never let them see what you are thinking... No matter how much you may hate them, keep it hidden. You are going to have to grow up fast, angel... You're going to have to be _smart_ – there is no room for mistakes. Do whatever you need to do to survive."

Another gunshot rings out below, the girl flinches. More tears stream down her cheeks.

"Do you understand me?" her mother says.

The girl stares at the door, shaking. When she doesn't respond, her mother grabs her by the shoulders, squeezing them until she lets out a yelp of pain.

"_Ada_, do you understand me?"

Washington, DC (02/03/1999)

Ada Wong strides briskly through the hall of a government building. Her black high heels click rhythmically, her hips swaying as she walks. Ada wears a long, black skirt with a white dress shirt – her professional attire. Around her neck hangs a delicate silver necklace. Men in blacks suits walk past her as she goes, hurrying busily. Every other man turns to look her over as she passes, their eyes running up and down her body. She knows they're looking, _she can feel it_. But Ada's become accustomed to the stares. _'Use your mind, Ada. Use your body'._At the end of the hall she comes to a door: _13th floor._ Opening it, she steps into a stairwell and makes her way up them. Again she thinks of Leon. She found him to be a most peculiar specimen. Brash, but loyal. Pre-occupied with justice, even if he's not sure what it means. As far as she could remember, she had never known anyone like him. She recalls his feathery hair, and the way his hands felt on her body... but most of all, his eyes. A smile spreads across her face. Not her usual smile – a genuine smile. A warmth envelopes her as she reaches the sixteenth floor.

Entering the door three floors up from the one she had come in on, she finds herself in a long hall, identical to the first. This floor is less busy, reserved for high-ranking members of the US government. Halfway down the hall she come across her destination. _'Room 1621'._ Taking a key card from her back pocket, she slides it through a slot by the door, then types in a code on the keypad. It beeps and she opens the door, stepping into a dimly lit room. The morning sun filters in through the blinds which hang over the window, leaving horizontal shafts of light across the room. Inside, three men are seated. The first is the NSA Director, General Michael Alexander. Balding on top, a ring of grey hair runs around the sides of his head. He wears a military uniform, decorated with medals and ribbons. A wisp of smoke rises from the cigar he smokes. Looking up from his chair, he adjusts his glasses and smiles slightly. On a couch, Simmons sits with the CIA Director, Robert Haldeman. With a full head of grey hair, Haldeman is a thin, serious looking man. He too is a General, though he wears a business suit. Simmons acknowledges her with a slight nod, the same greeting he would give any co-worker. Ada stops before them, one hand resting on her hip.

"Good morning gentlemen," she says flatly.

"Good morning, Agent Wong," Alexander replies, then after a pause, "Now that we're all here, we can begin."

"All right," Haldeman begins, "In the aftermath of the President's death we have a handful of people of concern to us... First, those closest to the incident: the President's driver – Eduardo Vasquez, and the Secret Service Agent, Eugene Smith. After them, our previous agitators: Emma Goodman, Leon Kennedy, Helena Harper, and Jill Valentine. As of last night, Valentine has booked a flight to Russia with an unknown companion."

"To _Russia_?" Simmons says.

"That's right," he continues, "either she's trying to flee the country, or she went there in search of Bogrov..."

"We'll need to keep an eye on them," Alexander says, "And what about Kennedy and Harper?"

"We're tapping the phone of a reporter... One Emma Goodman," Derek Simmons begins, "In fact we were tapping all their phones, but it seems they were wise enough to discard them. Early this morning, the reporter was contacted by Leon Kennedy. It seems Ms Goodman has already found out a fair deal about the President's death. Kennedy mentioned that they intended to return to Detroit... A fatal move on their part: in Detroit there will be no witnesses... If they were to die, no one would know."

"And you want me to kill them," Ada says.

"Not yet," Alexander replies, "For now, this is a reconnaissance mission. I want to know what they're expecting to find... If we've left some evidence behind, they may lead us to it."

"Consider it done," Ada says with a nod.

Outside Detroit, MI (02/03/1999)

The sky is clouded over the vast, deep-green Michigan forest which stretches to the horizon. In the north a mountain range rises up from the trees, a huge grey wall in the distance. A highway cuts through the forest, it curves and winds as it progresses. The day is overcast, but daylight glows dimly through the grey clouds overhead. Leon's black sedan speeds down the road, racing to its destination. Inside, Leon grips the wheel, periodically checking the speedometer. _'We're making good time,' _Leon thinks, _'We should be there within the hour'. _He adjusts his black, leather jacket. Next to him, Helena sits, staring out the window. She taps a rhythm on the glass. Leon looks over at her.

"Can you stop that?" he says irritably.

Helena shoots him a reproachful glance, then folds her arms on her lap, shooting back a sardonic smile. He waits for her to say something. When she doesn't, he turns his eyes back to the road.

"We're almost there," Leon says, though she already knows, "according to Hunnigan we should find a sewage plant outside the city limits – and outside the walls constructed around its perimeter. We can get in one side, go underground, and come out inside Detroit."

"Sounds good," Helena replies, coldly.

Leon looks back over at her. Her flannel shirt slides off her shoulder. She sits cross-legged, looking straight ahead with a blank expression. His gaze falls across Helena's ample breasts, their tops exposed above the low neck of her white under-shirt. Each time his car hits a small bump, they bounce slightly, which Leon finds particularly fascinating. When she turns to face him, he quickly looks back at the road.

"What?" she asks, flatly.

"Nothing."

Helena eyes him suspiciously for a moment.

"So," she sighs, "Once inside Detroit, we have to walk twelve blocks through zombie-infested streets, dodging military extermination squads, to find an apartment which – in all likelihood – has already been stripped of all evidence..."

"That's the gist of it," Leon replies.

"Sound like a great plan," Helena says, sarcastically.

"You got a better idea?"

"Maybe we could call Ada and offer to kill ourselves, it might save her the trouble."

Leon mutters a curse under his breath. Helena folds her arms and stares back at him.

"Like it or not, these are the only leads we have," he says.

"Is it the leads, or _the informant_ you're interested in?"

"Helena, I'm not having this conversation," Leon says firmly.

"Fine."

Turning back to the road, Leon shakes his head. _'Women'. _Helena turns back to the passenger-side window. He sees her reflection there, her expression cold. _'We're gonna be of no use if we kill each other before we get there,' _he thinks. His irritation quickly fades though, as he's once more distracted by Helena's gently bouncing breasts.

Leon and Helena exchange no more words as their ride continues. Eventually, the Michigan highway branches off to their left. Taking that road, they drive on for thirty minutes longer, driving along an uphill dirt road until they come to their destination. Amid the forest, there's a large clearing. Rising only one floor from the ground they see the sewage plant – or, at least, one side of the sewage plant. It's a bleak, unmarked concrete building, its walls cracked and dirty. The car slows to a stop and Leon and Helena get out, grabbing their bags from the back seat of the car. Throwing the bags on the hood of the car, they rifle through them. Helena takes out a black combat shotgun, throwing it over her shoulder. Leon takes an AR-15 with a brown stock and grip and slings it over his back. With it, he grabs a 44 Magnum revolver and slides it in his shoulder strap. Lastly, he takes a small C4 bomb, which Jill had given them before departing. They walk to the front of the building.

_Greater Metropolitan Sewage Plant_, the rusted sign reads. It's mounted over a heavy iron door with a large padlock on it. Running his hand over the door to find a weak point, Leon mounts the C4 and arms it. The dial reads _30 seconds_ and it beeps as the clock counts down.

"We better take cover," Leon says.

As the clock rhythmically beeps – counting down – they run along the wall for twenty-odd feet then duck low, putting their arms over their heads. Helena takes in a preparatory breath, bracing for the impact. A moment later, there is a huge explosion. The walls of the sewage plant rumble and shock wave cuts through their bodies. The force causes them to stagger, Leon almost falling over. _'Shit,' _he says to himself, _'I wasn't expecting that'. _Slowly, Leon and Helena turn to see a huge, jagged, gaping hole where the door used to be. It hadn't just blown off the door, but much of the wall around it.

"A little over-kill, don't you think," Helena says to Leon, dryly.

"Say what you will," he replies, "but Jill is anything but subtle."

Eastern Russia (02/03/1999)

A silver Hummer drives along the highway in a vast, hilly, snow-covered land. There are no structures or cities within sight, nothing but complete desolation. Inside, Jill and Chris are seated, the latter behind the wheel. Jill is clad in a tactical battle suit. Her tight, light-grey and blue suit is designed to keep her body at a neutral temperature. It covers her body in its entirety – save only her hands and face. She wears, long ice-blue boots with a combat knife strapped to one. A side arm is strapped to her right thigh and a belt – hanging at an angle around her waist, contains a variety of satchels with additional ammunition and extra utilities. Chris wears a similar suit, with a Beretta strapped to his belt and a Desert Eagle hanging in a shoulder strap beneath one arm. Rocking back and forth and tapping her foot, Jill bobs her head as loud heavy metal music blares from the car stereo. Distorted guitars, booming bass, and thunderous drums rumble as Black Sabbath's _War Pigs_ plays:

_Generals gathered in their masses_

_just like witches at black masses_

_Evil minds that plot destruction_

_sorcerers of death's construction_

_In the fields the bodies burning_

_as the war machine keeps turning_

_Death and hatred to mankind_

_Poisoning their brainwashed minds_

Reaching over, Chris Redfield turns down the music and turns to his partner.

"We'll be at our destination soon." he says, "once we're there, we'll need to walk for awhile... There are no roads leading to Tyumen Prison."

"And," Jill adds, "in any case, we can't risk being spotted. Not until we disable the power."

"According to our intelligence, the generator should be outside the building. There are tall walls around the prison, as well as guard towers."

"We've got everything we need," Jill says, "We may not have the numbers, but at least we have the element of surprise."

In the back of the Hummer lies all their supplies. A grappling hook with thirty-feet of cable for climbing the wall. A black sniper rifle to take out the guards. Jill's custom AK47: black and brown, with a pink heart etched on the hand-grip. Chris has an M-16, his long-arm of choice. It's not as powerful as the Kalashnikov, but it's more accurate and lighter.

Washington, DC (02/03/1999)

Sitting in a bustling down town café, Emma Goodman stares into a her tea, stirring it absently. _'Crystal Night'. _She turns over the words again and again, trying to contemplate their meaning. Looking up, she gazes out the sunlit windows, watching the people hurrying past. She lifts her paper cup and takes a sip, leaving a lipstick print on its edge. Recalling her conversations with Vasquez and Smith, a picture has begun to form itself. _'The Family had the President killed,' _she says to herself, _'why exactly, I don't know... Eugene Smith was in on it, presumably the Vice President, and the now deceased Ramirez... Why were they involved? What did they have to gain?'_ Taking another sip of her tea, she leans on her folded arms.

Senator Graham floats into her mind. A staunch opponent of the CTAA, Graham had known President Kaufmann for years. They were friends, and, if the stories were true, confidants as well. _'How long until Graham is killed, too?'_ Emma realises that his death is imminent. He's an influential person and a obstruction to The Family's plans. _'I need to tell him,'_ she thinks, _'I need to tell him everything... For his sake, and my own... He may be the only person in a position to stop this'._

She takes another sip of her tea as she contemplates this idea.

_'Yes,' _she thinks, nodding to herself, _'I need to find Graham.'_

Beneath Detroit, MI (02/03/1999)

Trailing behind Helena, Leon watches her as she walks. Her Beretta clasped in both hands, her plump behind sways side-to-side hypnotically as she goes. His eyes run along her supple waist, her midsection exposed between her shirt and jeans. They walk through a large, cavernous, underground passageway. The concrete walls are cracked and green with mildew. A stale odour pervades the corridor and dim florescent lights flicker overhead. Their footfalls echoing, they advance silently, looking for the first sign of trouble. To Leon, Helena is an enigma. He'd never met a woman so stable – not Johanna, certainly not his mother. Leon barely remember his mother, she ran off when he was ten. To Leon, she's little more than a vague memory, with his dark blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Johanna, his high school sweetheart, he recalls more vividly. She had pale blue eyes, which always made Leon sad. Whenever he though of her, he remembered the coconut smell which came from her long black hair. But, in the end, she had left him too.

Out of the shadows ahead, three zombies emerge. Staggering towards them, groaning, they wear the grey jumpsuits of sanitation workers. Their heavy boots drag across the concrete as they approach. The one nearest has had his lips torn off, dry blood staining his suit. The trio watch them with grey, glazed, lifeless eyes. Silently, Helena points, indicating for Leon to take the one on the far right. He nods and jogs to the target she pointed out. As he approaches, Helena fires two quick shot at the one nearest. The first shot jolts its head to the side, blood exploding from its temple, the second hits it forehead and it collapses to the floor. Leon comes within four feet of his target. Extending an arm, he shoots it point black in the face – the bullet ripping off its nose and exploding out the back of its rotting skull - and it falls back, its legs folded beneath it. Now, Helena advances on the last one. It groans, picking up into an awkward jog. Her gunshot explodes, echoing through the corridor, and the zombie drops to the floor. Looking over their kills for a moment, Leon gives Helena a resolute nod and they continue walking.

As they go, Leon looks over the rusted signs mounted on the walls around them.

"I think we need to make the first left," he says.

"Sounds good."

Walking on silently, they eventually come across an intersection branching to the right and left. They take the leftward path as planned. There, they find another zombified sanitation worker, Leon promptly executes it. They walk past as it lies behind in a pool of its own blood. Fifty, then a hundred yards pass before they near the end of the long corridor. As they draw near a pair of double doors, a chorus of moans swell from the other side. _'Shit,' _Leon thinks, _'it sounds like there's... a dozen, maybe more'._ He grips his handgun and lowers into a crouch, then he weaves in front of Helena. He raises a hand for Helena to follow cautiously. Reaching the doors, he presses an ear to them and listens.

"Sounds distant," Leon whispers, "but be prepared anyway."

Helena nods. Pushing open the door, they walk into the next room, Leon in the lead. They find themselves in a huge room, its walls forty feet high. A wide, iron catwalk extends out in front of them, bridging one door to the next. Twenty feet below, the undead meander aimlessly, knee-deep in sewage. All wearing the same grey jumpsuits, the mindless, moaning men lumber, direction-less. Leon tries to estimate their numbers: _'Definitely more than a dozen'. _On the walkway ahead, one zombie stands with his back to them. He's almost completely still, only swaying a little. Turning to Helena, he raises a finger to his lips in a 'shh' gesture. Putting his gun in his holster, he slowly creeps towards it. Trying to step as lightly as possible, he crouches low, watching for the slightest reaction. Once behind it, he swiftly wraps both arms around it waist, lifts it, and throws it over the railing. Its arms flail instinctively as it fall. Its body hits the sewage below with a huge splash, greenish-brown water flying upwards. Leon puts his hands on the rail and looks down, then he turns to Helena.

"We need to save our ammo," he says with a satisfied grin, "Bet they don't teach you that in the NSA."

Helena walks past, giving him a playful pat on the chest.

"What a _big man_," she says, mocking playfully, then clasps her hands together in ironic admiration, "_whatever_ would I do without you?"

As she walks past, there's more sway in her hips than before. Leon watches with a grin and shakes his head, then follows. As they cross the walkway, he looks her over. Their steps ring off the iron bridge, reverberating. They reach the opposite side and open the doors, stepping into next corridor. Most of the lights are out here, the hall is largely plunged in darkness. Instinctively, Leon and Helena ready their firearms. They advance cautiously, peering into the darkness. Off in the shadows, they hear it – growling. _'A dog,' _Leon thinks. They raise their guns as they hears the rapid patter of a running animal. _'Not one – two'. _Passing under some lights, they see the two skinless hounds racing towards them, their muscles glistening. One heads towards Helena, the other Leon. They leap from the ground in unison, the duo firing shots at them. Both of them connect, but fail to kill their attackers. Helena ducks low, and the dog flies over her, blood pouring from its chest wound. It hits the ground and rolls, quickly leaping back to its feet. Helena fires off three shots. Blood spraying from its wounds, its skulls bursting open, it yelps and falls dead. Leon's attacker bites into the leather around his arm. Shaking it back and forth, it eventually lets loose and Leon kicks it in the side. It falls over and Leon shoots it in the head.

Leaving the bodies of the infected dogs behind, Leon and Helena move onward. Remaining cautious, they pass from one spot of light to the next, listening closely. Out in the darkness, they see a pair of double doors. Waving for Helena to follow, Leon jogs to the doors. Pressing his ear up against them, he listens for a moment.

"Sounds clear," he says.

Leon and Helena push open the heavy doors to see the post-apocalyptic landscape of Detroit. Tall brick buildings rise high around them, their windows dirty or broken. A cold wind blowing, newspapers and garbage roll through the streets – whistling and rustling ominously. Abandoned cars sits by the sides of the street, others in the middle of the road. The wind carries the distant moaning of the undead, hundreds of thousands of which still wander the city streets. A few zombies meander in the road and on side-walks nearby. Since the breakout occurred on Christmas Eve, holiday decoration still wrap around light poles and hang in store-front windows – glowing in red, green, and silver – an ironic display of holiday cheer. A thin veil of late-winter snow blankets the streets and cars around them, green and red light glowing on its surface. For a long moment they stand side-by-side silently, their guns in hand, looking at their daunting new environment. A harsh gust of wind blows, howling.

"Well," Leon says as he looks over the scene, "we made it."

"Now the mission really begins," Helena adds gravely.


	5. Chapter 5: Prison Break

**Disclaimer: All copyright content belongs to Capcom and its respective owners.**

**Note on Chapter Five: I would've uploaded this sooner, but MY ACCOUNT WAS BLOCKED DUE TO A GUIDELINE TRANSGRESSION. The most important part of this chapter revolves around Chris and Jill's break-in of Tyumen Prison in Easter Russia. There is some moderate sexual content, and some violence/gore as well. From this point on, the shit really hits the fan. It seems as though traffic has been picking up on FF lately, so I'm hoping for a ton of FFRs.**

**Note on the next chapter: I'm going to try to get the chapter out relatively quickly (as I'm on the edge of the important 20,000 word mark). It will have A LOT OF VIOLENCE - so brace yourselves. There will be a lot of sexual content as well in the coming chapters (not necessarily the next chapter, though). After this chapter, everything is in place for the action to really begin.**

**Deviant Art: SHOULD THIS STORY GET PULLED, I WILL RE-POST ON MY DEVIANT ART PAGE. Unfortunately, one of my stories has been deleted because some people (who apparently don't care about the principals of FREE SPEECH) flagged it... Now it is gone forever. But this story is backed up, so if it gets deleted I'll put it up on DA. My username is 'TresArtistic'.**

**Resident Evil Poll: I have a poll on my profile page asking what your favourite RE characters are. Please fill it out, the answers may affect this, or future stories.**

**As always: Please COMMENT, FAV, REVIEW... The more support I get, the faster I'll finish the next chapter.**

**- Alex K**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Prison Break**

Washington, DC (02/03/1999)

Emma Goodman sits in a waiting room of the public offices of Senator Dennis Graham. At the front of the room, sitting next to the office door, his secretary answers incoming calls. A few other people are gathered around the room – journalists and lobbyists – many of whom she recognises from her years working in the media. _'He'll never believe me,' _Emma says to herself, _'even if he does, he'll never agree to get involved... Everyone is too terrified to act. It's funny how easily a democracy can die'. _The Senator was known as someone who stood up to government consensus, never siding along party lines but sticking to his principals. As such, he was perceived as something of an anomaly in Washington circles: a kook, an extremist. Re-elected twice, he was well-liked by his constituents, but treated like a joke my the mainstream media. Emma saw him as a bit of a kook too, though she respected his commitment to his values even when she disagreed. So, sitting in the waiting room, she contemplated her chances with him, deciding that they weren't very good. As she fidgets with the strap of her shoulder bag, the secretary hangs up the phone then checks a list.

"Ms Goodman," she calls, looking around the room.

"Yes," Emma answers.

"The Senator will see you now."

"Thank you."

Rising from her chair, Emma walks to the door. Opening it, she steps inside, finding the Senator looking down at some paperwork. On the corner of his desk, a picture frame stands. It shows himself, with his wife Lauren, and his daughter Ashley. His daughter is a pretty blond girl, looking much more like her mother than her father. An upper-class family, his wife wears a long floral dress with a pearl necklace. The daughter is dressed in a plaid, pleated skirt. Her hair parted neatly to one side, a preppy beige sweater is tied around her shoulders.

"Senator Graham," she says taking a seat.

"Ms Goodman," he replies curiously, "to what do I owe this honour?"

"I-" Emma pauses momentarily, "I think I have some information which may be of great interest to you... _Sensitive information_."

Senator Graham's expression become grave suddenly, as though he knows where she's going.

"I see," he says, "what 'sensitive information', exactly?"

"You are aware of the changes which have taken place in America lately... And I have a feeling you have your suspicions about what exactly is going on. Raccoon City, Detroit, the CTAA, and the President's assassination... I have accumulated some... _dangerous_ information, which I can pass along to you, if you're willing to receive the burden."

His eyes watch her sternly. For a moment he says nothing and his eyes seem to go blank, as though he were deep in thought. After a long silence, Graham clears his throat.

"Miss Goodman," he mumbles sombrely, "you're someone I know well, someone I respect. But as things stand today, I'm concerned about my well-being. I'm familiar with your work on the recent changes in America – familiar enough to know better than to get involved... Whatever it is you're offering to me, I want nothing to do with it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Emma replies, "but you need to know: turning your back on this will not guarantee your safety."

"I understand that."

Raising a hand, he taps a finger on his ear then points up at the ceiling. For a moment, she watches him curiously, then nods. _'He thinks he's being bugged,' _she thinks. With an upturned hand, Senator Graham gestures for her to hand over whatever she intends to give him. As she looks through her shoulder bag, he continues speaking.

"These are strenuous times in America, Ms Goodman," he says, as she pulls out a stack of photocopied documents, "At this point in my career, I really can't risk being a party to internal speculation."

"If that's the way you see it," she replies, handing him the stack, "I suppose there's nothing I can do to change your mind."

"I'm afraid not."

He flips through the document briefly, his expression sober and unchanging. Opening a drawer in his desk, he slides it inside, then pulls out a glossy manual. He hands it over to Emma. It's a white manual, in its centre it bares the familiar logo of the Umbrella Corporation. She reads the title: _Umbrella Corporation 1997 Progress Report, Progenitor and Tyrant Projects._ Emma gives Graham an appreciative nod, then slides it into her bag.

"I trust you can see yourself out," he says.

Nodding once more, Emma rises from her chair. Walking to the door, she opens it, then turns back to him with a serious expression.

"Thank you for your time, Senator Graham," Emma says, but her eyes say something different.

_'Be careful'._

Detroit, MI (02/03/1999)

Leon and Helena weave their way through the cars which are scattered through the desolate Detroit streets. Gripping their side-arms, they advance, looking about themselves as they go. Trying to avoid unnecessary attention, they communicate with one another using silent gestures. The undead are sparsely strewn in this part of town, but every passing gust of wind carries a sea of moans – hinting ominously at the hundreds of thousands of wondering bodies that still stalk the city. Helena in the lead, she kicks a zombie in the chest, knocking it backwards over the hood of a car, then continuing onward. Coming to an intersection, a few zombies are crouched over a dead dog. Its body is torn open, the dog's intestines pouring out onto the street. For a moment, Helena pauses to watch as a decaying man in bloodied business suit leans down, hissing as it gnaws at the dog's face, pulling skin and fur back in bloody strands. An old black woman presses her face into the opened gut, drawing its bloodied face back, intestines clenched between its teeth. Grimacing at the morbid scene, Helena pauses, then looks away.

"Which way?" Helena asks, turning to Leon.

"Left," he replies quietly.

Nodding, she takes the appointed path. An undead police officer steps in her path. Raising her gun to its head, she fires off a shot, downing it. Bending down, she grabs its gun. Popping out the magazine, she checks the make and remaining bullets, then slides it through her belt. Passing a minivan, a body lies out the driver's side, its skulls crushes against the asphalt, bloody tire tracks leading on from it. The rest of their trek is as macabre. Other than the reanimated corpses which walk the street, there are dead animals and people lying about in pools of their own blood. Mangled, the deceased miss limbs. Lying in the middle of the road, they pass a small zombified girl. Her skin peeled off from her face, she hisses and tries to get at them, but both of her legs have been torn off, so she drags herself over the asphalt with bloody fingers.

The duo freezes in place as they hear the sound of automatic gunfire in the distance. It reverberates from between two buildings up ahead. Helena feels the sharp, thunderous gunfire beating in her chest. Exchanging a cautionary glance, they move out from the middle of the street to the pavement, ducking inside a store-front doorway. Once inside, Leon puts a hand on her arm guiding her back. His touch makes her stomach flutter, but she pushes it away, want to see what's coming. Looking out from the entrance, they see a military-style, state police vehicle. The black, armoured vehicle, rolls around a corner on huge huge, tread tires. The engine of the massive vehicle hums loudly and they can feel the vibrations in the pavement. The top open, five soldiers are inside. While one drives the others stand in a circle, pointing their guns out in all directions. Every few moments, a burst of gunfire breaks out, tearing a zombie to shreds in a bloody mess.

"The military execution crews," Helena whispers.

"Here to clear the streets," Leon adds.

The military vehicle makes another turn up ahead and disappear behind a line of buildings. Slowly, the gunfire fades into the distance and Helena emerges from the doorway, Leon following behind. They start walking forward, watching the streets ahead, cautiously. Looking over at her partner, an irrepressible feeling overtakes Helena. Something in the way his hair frames his face, with those striking eyes peering out, cuts sharply into her chest. For a moment, a sweet melancholy swims with in her head, then passes. Leon raises a hand, pointing to a luxuriant apartment building in the distance. With balconies around its edge, the tall glass high rise stands out among the brick structures which surround it.

"That's the one," Leon says, dropping his hand to his side, "That's Shafer's building."

San Francisco, CA (Date Unknown)

Two teenagers make their way through a busy marketplace in San Francisco's Chinatown. The sun sets in the distance, turning the sky orange and crimson. Cutting through a throng of people, they turn down an alleyway. Within the darkened alley, wooden crates and garbage are strewn throughout, the walls on either side looming high and close. Ada leads a teenage boy, roughly her own age. They both wear dark sweatshirts with the hoods pulled over their heads. The boy is Chinese as well. Following behind her, apprehensively, he frequently looks over his shoulder nervously. Ada walks confidently, periodically checking to see if he's still behind her. She makes a right, coming behind a series of stores. Finding the back door, she reaches into the pockets of her tight, faded jeans. The boy stops and watches. Ada pulls two, long, thin metallic objects from her pocket. Taking one in each hand, she slides them into the rear entrance padlock.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" the boy asks in English.

"Absolutely sure," Ada replies as she fiddles with the lock, her English a little awkward.

"What if he's in there?"

"He's not," she says nonchalantly, then curses under her breath, "the shutter's pulled down."

"Maybe he cleaning up."

"He's gone," Ada insists, somewhat irritably, "You're not thinking of chickening out, are you?"

He never replies, but stands there helplessly. The padlock clicks and Ada pulls out the picks, sliding them back in her pocket. Turning the knob she pushes the door wide open. With a wide grin, she takes a self-congratulatory bow. He walks past her into the darkened store – thoroughly surprised by her skill set.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" he asks, looking around the store.

"My father taught me."

"Was he a locksmith?"

Ignoring his question, Ada closes the door behind them, then hits a switch. The lights come on revealing a cluttered junk shop. While her friend watches nervously, Ada walks around the store casually, picking up pots and vases – looking at them curiously. She unzips and opens her sweater, a tight black _Joy Division_ t-shirt beneath. She makes her way to the front of the store, metallic shutters are pulled over their windows. Sitting on the front desk, she swings her legs over, landing on the other side with a peppy jump. There sits an old-fashioned register with a crank on the side. She pulls the crank and the register pops open with a _ding_. A little cash, just the float, sits inside. Ignoring the change, Ada takes the cash in hand and counts it. _'Damn,' _she says to herself, _'just eighty dollars'._ She folds the cash up and slides it in her pocket, frowning.

"Can we go now?" the boy asks.

"What's the hurry?" Ada replies in Cantonese, then switching back to English, "No one knows we're here."

"But, if we get caught-"

"That's cute," Ada says with a patronising smile, "but we won't... In any case, we're minors."

She climbs back over the counter and walks over to the boy. Throwing her arms over his shoulders, she leans in and kisses him. Once their lips part, she looking into his eyes with a mischievous smile. She pushes her hips to his slightly, revelling in his captivity. She turns around in his arms, pressing her cheek to his, her hands stroking his softly.

"If you want to go now, we can," she says, then pulls his hands up over her breasts, "But if you don't, I know something else we can do before we go."

Washington, DC (02/03/1999)

Ada Wong stands by the door to the office of NSA Director, General Michael Alexander. Wearing tall, black high heels, her matching skirt is extraordinarily short – stopping halfway between her waist and knees. She wears a black, women's suit jacket over a white dress shirt. Raising a hand to knock, she drops her hand, then undoes the top two buttons of her shirt, exposing a little cleavage. She looks down at it momentarily then decides it's appropriate. She clears her throat then knocks on the door. A few moments pass and she raises her hand to knock again, but as she does so the door opens. Alexander stands in the doorway, looking back at her, perplexed.

"Agent Wong," he says, quizzically.

"May I come in?" Ada asks.

"Of course."

As she strides inside his office, Alexander closes the door behind her. A large American flag hangs behind his desk, two house plants on either side of a window, curtains drawn over them.

"I'm headed to Detroit today," Ada says as she looks around his office,

"So I've heard."

"I had a few questions to ask."

"Please do," Alexander says, intrigued.

"The -" she pauses, "May I take a seat?"

Alexander nods. Walking over to a black leather chair in the corner of the room, she takes a seat, crossing her long legs at the knees. Alexander watches her, standing in the centre of the office. His eyes move over her body, not to subtly, Ada waits momentarily.

"The Family is strong," she says, "wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course," Alexander replies.

"Would you say you trust its members?"

"Without question."

Ada replies with an _mhm_, then makes a contrived, concerned expression. She looks down at the floor as though she were deep in thought, rolling one ankle. Her calculated pause gives Alexander a moment to look over her once more, and to build his curiosity over her ambiguous question. Finally, his curiosity peaks and he prompts her with the next logical question.

"Why do you ask?"

Ada remains silent for a moment, looking back at him with her blank, unknowable eyes. Her head cocked to one side, she leaves him hanging.

"Let me tell you a little about myself," Ada starts, clasping her hands over her knee, "I've been in the world of corporate and political espionage for a long time. It's a difficult and insecure job... I take great risks – doing what I do – and at any time I could be killed. If I was... It's likely that no one would ever know who did it, or even investigate my life. Technically, I don't exist. I see The Family as a destination, a position with security, and I very much intend to stay here."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"It's in my best interest to insure that The Family remains strong... If there was someone who was... _undermining_ the integrity of our group, surely you would want to know."

"Of course... Is there someone you think may be a threat to The Family?"

"There may be," Ada says cryptically, "and if there is, you'll be the first to know."

Eastern Russia (02/03/1999)

Wearing large white parkas, Jill and Chris walk through the deep snow, marching side-by-side silently. They've walked for near on an hour – through the snowy desolation, and now the prison is in sight. The tall, dark grey walls stand around the prison perimeter, some fifteen or twenty feet high – a guard tower on each corner. It's not even five o'clock, but the overcast sky darkens the landscape, as though it were late in the evening. Condensation rises from Jill's mouth as she pants. _'It's about one hundred meters,' _Jill estimates, _'that's more than close enough to take the shot... Any closer and we risk being spotted'. _Their mission, however dangerous it may be, is hopeless if they can't remain unseen until they've infiltrated the prison, and she's all too aware of that. Slowly, the prison draws closer and Jill stops and turns to Chris, sliding her sniper rifle from her shoulder.

"I think this is close enough," Jill says.

"Alright," Chris replies nodding, peering into the distance, "Let's do this."

Adjusting the rifle in her hands, Jill kneels in the snow. It rises to her knees. She adjusts the rifle once more, pressing its stock into her shoulder. _'I'll need to get both guards quickly,'_ Jill says to herself, _'We need to climb the wall before they know we're coming'. _Tilting her cheek to the stock, she peers through the scope. Through the telescopic lens, she sees the edge of the guard tower. Adjusting her aim, she centres it, slowly zooming in until the prison guard is in her sights. He sits over a control board, tinkering with some knobs and switches. Jill fires, the clap of the gunshot cutting through the Arctic silence.. The guard's head jerks forward and he collapses. Turning 45 degrees, Jill finds the other guard tower. Inside, the second guard stands, looking out from the window. Steadying her aim, Jill fires once more. His head jerks sideways and he falls.

"Done," she says.

"Let's go," Chris instructs.

They continue on their path, stepping through the deep snow. Looking over at Chris her mind flashes to the last night they had shared together: the way his tongue felt between her thighs, his manhood pressed between her breasts. A sharp gust of wind cuts across her face. _'God, I wish I could be back in bed...' _she says to herself, _'In Chris' arms... warm'. _But their situation is too dire, and she focuses on the task ahead of them.

When they get within around ten feet of the wall, they stop, Chris taking the looped rope from his shoulder. Testing the weight of the steel grappling hook at its end for a moment he begins to spin it, letting it slide through his fingers as it picks up speed, letting the circle grow larger and larger. With a grunt, he throws the grappling hook in a high upward arch. Curving over the wall, they hear a distant _clink _as it settles to a stop. Chris draws the rope back until he feels it clamp onto something, then gives it a hard tug. Giving Jill a quick nod, he begins to climb the rope, walking along the wall as he pulls himself up. After he's about 10 feet up, she follows, walking along the wall. As she ascends, it suddenly occurs to her that this is basically a suicide mission. _'This is no different than Arklay or the Johnson Building,' _she decides, resignedly, _'Yet again, Chris and I are putting our lives on the line to stop the T-Virus'. _She sees Chris disappear over the wall above, and soon after, she climbs up behind him.

The wall is three feet wide, giving them a small space to crouch. From their perch they look down on the prison courtyard below. The nearside of the prison lies in shadows. Tall crates stacked about, the courtyard is sub-divided by seven-foot, chain-link fences with coils of razor wire running along the top. From their vantage point, they see Russian military personnel walking around the section below them, and what looks like prisoners in the fenced off area beyond. Upon closer inspection, she realises the meandering bodies are not prisoners at all.

"Zombies," Jill whispers, pointing to the fenced off area in the distance.

"And about six soldiers nearby," Chris adds, then points to another fenced off enclosure on the right side of the prison, "That looks like the external generator that Hunnigan told us about."

"Think we should blow it?"

"The confusion will buy us a little time."

Pulling up the rope, Chris walks along the wall in a low crouch until he finds a discreet place to lower himself. He clamps the grappling hook and drops the rope down on the inside of the concrete wall. Climbing down the rope, he slides down, landing between two stacks of crates. Jill follows behind, her black gloves warming as she slides down the rope. Taking his side arm in both hands, he goes into a crouch. He peaks around the crates then hurries forward to the next stack, throwing his back up against them. Jill follows, but stops, seeing an approaching guard. She flashes a quick sign to Chris then ducks back. He re-holsters his gun, taking out his combat knife. He hears the soldier approaching and ducks low, trying to remain hidden in the shadows. He sees the tall, muscle-bound soldier pass by and waits for a few seconds, then creeps up behind him. Lunging forward, Chris clasps a gloved hand over his mouth and wrenches his head backward. With a quick swipe, he splits the man's throat open before he even realises what's happening. Blood sprays from his opened throat as Chris drags him behind the crate. By the time Chris throws the body down, he's still clutching at his throat and thrashing his legs.

The pair hurry on, albeit cautiously, checking between all obstructions as they progress. Fifteen yards onward, they see another pair of soldiers. Standing in front of a chain-link enclosure around the prison's generator, they have their backs turned. They joke and laugh in Russian. One of them gives the other a playful punch. From the shadows, Chris gestures at his knife, indicating that Jill should do likewise, and they slowly creep up behind them. They pounce in synchronicity, covering the two soldiers mouths and cutting their throats with swift strokes. The soldiers collapse, Jill and Chris lowering their targets into the snow. Blood squirts from their opened throats in intermittent bursts and – before their bodies go limp – Jill has already snatched their keys.

Jill jogs to the door outside the generator. Trying a few keys, she finds the right one and unlocks the door, throwing it open. The large, steel generator hums, a green and red light on its front. Pulling open the panel, Chris finds a tangle of cables. Grabbing them, he grunts at he tears them out, and some lights go out over the prison walls.

"Step one completed," Jill says with a sigh, placing a hand on her hip.

"It should take them a few minutes to realise someone's broken in," Chris replies, "We need to get as deep within the prison as we can before they do."

"They've probably already sent soldiers to find out what's happened."

Making their way around the generators enclosure, they stay in the shadows. Hunnigan's intelligence indicated that there would be a side entrance nearby, and both of them understood that the front doors would be too heavily guarded. Though it struck Jill how poorly this BOW outpost was. For a moment, she though it may be because the prison was so isolated from the nearest town or village, or that it may be bureaucratic incompetence. In either case, she understood that the integrity of this outpost was fragile at best. Now that they had destroyed the generator, whatever horrors were held within these walls were likely free now.

The duo find a heavy, unmarked iron door along the side of the building. Finding it lock, Jill retrieves her lock-picks, and gets to work as Chris stands guard. The lock is woefully simple, and in no time she hears a heavy metallic click. Tyrant, Nemesis, lickers, the Napoleon, and a myriad of Umbrella's other abomination flash in her mind. As she opens the door into the darkened prison, she feels a fleeting dread and wonders what they'll find inside.


	6. Chapter 6: Stairway Of The Sun

**Disclaimer: All copyright content belongs to Capcom and its respective owners.**

**Note on Chapter Five: **It's been a long time since I've uploaded a new chapter, but it's a long one. This is actually one of the best chapters I've ever written and alludes to two major RE characters which will be introduced in the coming chapters.

**Note on the next chapter: **The next chapter will be the last in 'Part One' of my story. Expect some dramatic events to take place. A special note: At least one major character will die by the end of this story.

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**Chapter Five: Stairway Of The Sun**

**Washington, DC (02/03/1999)**

The setting sun casts orange shafts of light through the horizontal blinds, creating a comforting atmosphere in the warm office. Wisps of smoke curl upward in the light and a haze surround the three men who occupy the room. Behind the neatly organised desk, Richard Chapin, who sits in his first meeting since he was inaugurated as President earlier in the day. He looks across at his visitors, his thin, sallow face wearing a serious expression. On the other side of the desk, two men sit. The first is Derek Simmons, he fumbles awkwardly with the lapel of his jacket, looking across at the President. The second is his higher-up, NSA Director Michael Alexander, his grey balding head mirroring Chapin's, he wears his highly decorated military uniform. After a moment, President Chapin clears his throat and straightens out some paperwork lying in front of him.

"Thank you for joining me gentlemen," he says morosely, "we need a quick run-down of recent events."

"Of course," Alexander starts, "We've put everything into place. Now that you're the President we're exactly where we need to be to act – and we should act soon. It may be quick, but I don't see why we couldn't pass the CTAA."

"You don't think that that would be too brazen?"

"Some people would object, but we are history's _actors_... The public are there to simply observe. In this time of conflict, none will object... And those who do, will be correctly seen as traitors."

"What about our traitors?" Chapin asks, turning to Simmons.

"You mean Leon and Helena?" Simmons asks, to which Chapin nods, "They're somewhere in Detroit as we speak. I'm not sure what they hope to find, but we should take their presence seriously."

"Agreed," Chapin says, "And I believe I know exactly how to deal with them... But we'll come back to it."

Taking in his cryptic response, Alexander leans forward tapping ash from his cigar into a tray on the end of the President's desk.

"Jill Valentine is in Russia," he says, "She went there with one Chris Redfield, a former STARS colleague."

"_Tyumen?_" Chapin asks.

"I assume so," Alexander answers, "Our turncoat, Silverdax, is stationed there... Knowing him, Bogrov, and the history of Tyumen, I highly doubt they'll make it out of there alive. But we'll have to keep an eye on that anyway."

"And Goodman?"

"According to Director Haldeman she paid a visit to Senator Graham," Simmons says.

Chapin nods gravely.

"She's going to have to be neutralised – sooner or later," Simmons continues, "First we need to find out exactly what she knows... We need to find out what – _if anything_ – Graham knows."

"Keep close track of her," Chapin advises, "she's a serious threat."

"So," Alexander says quizzically, "what is this plan you alluded to, regarding Harper and Kennedy?"

Chapin leans back, a slight grin spreading across his face. His smile resembles a grimace, and it accentuates his sunken cheeks.

"In Raccoon City, the Umbrella Corporation had deployed a Tyrant, code-named _'Nemesis'_," Chapin explains, "Among the many things we've taken from them, we've got a hold of the details of the Nemesis program. An unstoppable killer, the Nemesis can be programmed to pursue and destroy a given target. He has the sense of smell of a dog and a chip in his brain which can recognise voices from a great distance. Once a target is programmed, it will not be deterred by anything until its target is dead. Our Nemesis is superior to the previous incarnation... Bred from a carefully chosen male, titanium alloys were woven into its bones. Great care was taken to preserve the test subject's brain, making the new Nemesis more intelligent than its predecessor. Its whole body is covered in a kevlar bodysuit... It's easily the strongest BOW ever created... And I must say, we're absolutely stunned by the results."

"And its victims have been chosen?" Simmons asks.

"They have," Chapin replies with a nod, "Only a few hours ago, the Nemesis has been sent to Detroit to kill Leon Kennedy and Helena Harper."

**Detroit, MI (02/03/1999)**

Leon and Helena stand at the base of what was once Special Agent Anthony Shafer's place of residence. The glass front doors of the building are shattered, a corpse hanging over the broken glass. Taking the lead, Leon steps over the busted glass of the other door, his boots crunching on fragments strewn over the floor. The lights are on in the lobby. Around the elevator three bodies lie in pools of dry, crusted blood. Walking around the bodies cautiously, they stop in front of the elevators. Hitting the elevator call button, the lights blink as the elevator descends. Turning, he watches Helena as she looks over the bodies. Putting her hands on her knees, Helena leans over one body, looking at it with a curious expression. Her shapely behind sticking outwards, it catches Leon's glance. _'She does it purposely,' _Leon says to himself, _'she's playing a game with me'_. His eyes run down the length of her legs and he has the sudden desire to walk over a grab her, but manages to restrain himself.

The body below Helena suddenly stirs. Letting out the faintest of groans it tries to lift itself from the floor. There's a gross peeling sound as it raises its blood-encrusted torso. Its face is taut and sallow, its eyes sunken and grey. Helena pulls a knife from her belt and nonchalantly jams it into its skull – the body goes limp. _'She's already accustomed to all this,' _Leon observes, _'Didn't take her long. I promised myself no one would ever have to see something like this, back in Raccoon City, but here we are'._

There's a _ding_. They turn to see doors of the elevator slide open.

"That's our ride," Leon says.

They step inside the elevator, Leon hitting the 12th floor button. As it starts to rise, Leon glances at his partner. After a moment, their glances meet. She looks at him blankly, perplexed by his mischievous grin.

"What?" Helena asks curiously.

"Nothing," he replies, turning away.

"_What?_" she insists, laughing awkwardly.

"Your ass looks great in those jeans," Leon says with a grin.

"_Very professional_," Helena shoots back ironically, shaking her head and mirroring his grin, "Remind me. How long were you a cop? _One day?_"

"Well, I have an excuse... You know, the whole apocalypse and all."

"Convenient," Helena says with a nod, "My guess is you would've been fired anyways. The police department doesn't look too kindly on sexual harassment."

"_Shut up_," Leon jests.

The elevator ring and the door slides open. Leon gives her a playful shove as they step out. As they make their way down the hall, they see two zombies meandering towards them. Helena takes the initiative. Walking to the first one, she kicks it in the chest, knocking it onto its back with a heavy thud. A shot from her side-arm rips through its forehead, killing it instantly. With another quick shot she downs the second. They weave between the bodies, progressing through the hall, before stopping before a door reading: _1207_.

"This is it," Leon says.

He tries the door - finding it locked. Stepping back, Leon kicks the door in with a grunt. There's a loud wooden _crack_ and the door flies open. They walk inside, Helena closing the busted door behind them. The room is a mess. Tables and chairs are overturned, papers are strewn about, all the cupboards of the small adjoining kitchen are open, and dishes lie broken on the floor. They look about.

"They've already raided Shafer's apartment," Leon says.

"We'll have to go over the whole place anyways," Helena replies, "otherwise the trip was for nothing."

She kneels over some documents which are spread over the floor. Leon turns left, heading into the open door to Shafer's bedroom. Inside, it looks much the same. Dressers have been pulled open, clothes are strewn around the room. A computer monitor sits atop a desk, but the tower is missing. The drawers of the desk have been pulled out and over turned, pens and other office supplies splashed over Shafer's light-grey carpet. Leon wanders through the room, looking over the bed. The blankets have been pulled off, lying in a pile by its side. He walks to the mahogany dresser. It stands with its doors flung open, but the clothes have all been pulled down and he finds it empty. _'Damn it,' _Leon says to himself, cursing under his breath_, 'they completely cleared the place out'._ Getting to his knees, he looks under the bed. _'Nothing'_. Grabbing the dresser, he grunts as he pulls it forward a few inches. Peering behind it, he finds nothing. Letting out a sigh, he sits on the edge of Shafer's bed.

Leon runs a hand through his hair. _'If Shafer knew half of what we know, he'd be too smart to leave all of his information in two places... He must've kept the information in at least three places – if not more. The question is: where?'_ Cursing again, Leon drops his face in his hands. _'Where would I hide something I wanted no one else to find?' _Racking his brain, he tries to think of what he'd done with classified information, but the only official office he'd ever held was in the Raccoon Police Department, which only lasted a day. Since then, all information he'd received was passed on to trusted allies. _'Who were Shafer's friends? Did he even have any?'_. But, suddenly, another thought dawns on him. As a teenager there were three things he hid from his family: his journal, his porn, and his pot. He had stashed them all in the same place, beneath his mattress.

A glimmer of hope brings a spark of light to Leon's eyes. Springing up from the bed he grabs the mattress, lifting it up. Nothing.

"_Fuck!_" Leon growls, dropping the mattress.

Spinning around, he paces, running his finger through his hair and grimacing. _'A fucking FBI agent doesn't stash his shit under his mattress,' _Leon thinks, cursing himself, _'like he'd keep top secret files where a teenager stashes his weed'._ Leon freezes in place. _'I didn't keep my weed under the mattress,' _he recalls, _'I kept it in the box spring'._

Walking back over to the bed, he drops to his knees. Running a hand under it, he feels the thin fabric which covers the bottom. Shuffling from one side to the other, he feels about, hoping to find some bulge, something conspicuous. Running across one ends of the bed, his fingers touch some frayed fabric. Stopping he gropes about. _'There's a hole'._ Reaching inside it, his fingers touch a wooden beam that runs down the centre of the bed frame. Reaching over it, his finger touches something. _'A book?'_ Grabbing it, he pulls it out. In his hands, he sees an unmarked notebook. He flips through it anxiously. Half the notebook has writing in it, and from his quick flipping he sees the keywords he was hoping for: _Umbrella, T-Virus, Al Sayid, MacNamara Building, _and..._ The Family._ Helena walks into the bedroom, her head hung low, a defeated look on her face. Leon looks up at her holding the notebook, his expression one of total surprise.

"I think I got something," he says.

**Washington, DC (02/03/1999)**

Emma Goodman sits hunched over the Umbrella progress report she had been given by Senator Graham. In the back seat of a cab, her driver mumbles to himself as he weaves through traffic, periodically honking at some pedestrian. Licking her thumb, she grips the top corner and opens the manual. The next page contains a brief table of contents. She flips past it to a page titled, _Introduction_. Scanning over the page, it lists the report's writers and contributors, as well as disclaimer warning against giving the file to any _'Unauthorised Personnel'_. She flips to the next page:

_The Progenitor Virus & The Stairway Of The Sun_

_The history of what we now know as the Tyrant Virus dates back to 1966, when two explorers, named Oswell Spencer and James Marcus, travelled to a remote part of the West African nation, Guinea. In a cave in the Northwest they found a flower that the locals referred to as 'The Stairway Of The Sun'. Within that plant, there was a naturally occurring virus – dubbed the 'Progenitor'. Spencer and Marcus returned to America with the flower and began their research. Around this time, Spencer – a man of great wealth – founded the Umbrella Corporation. Among Umbrella's other pursuits, no project was more closely guarded then that of the Progenitor._

_At first, the Progenitor Virus seemed to be a failed venture. All early test subject were killed by exposure, but Dr Marcus was certain that he was on the verge of a breakthrough. In 1978, his break finally came. While experimenting with leeches (subjects used due to their high tolerance for viral infections), an new virus was created: The Tyrant Virus._

_Two researchers worked under Marcus: William Birkin and Albert Wesker. Refinements in the T-Virus were made over the years, continuing after Marcus' death. The experiments which took place throughout the 80s and early 90s involved plant life, animals, and finally people. The results were similar in all cases: heightened aggression, deteriorating intelligence, and an insatiable appetite. The earliest Tyrants were produced at this same time, one in the Spencer Mansion, another at an auxiliary laboratory below Shen Manor. But problems arose right away. _

_Marcus became psychologically unstable, and unfortunately need to be removed._

Emma is suddenly interrupted. Calling out to her, the cab driver pulls over on the side of the street and turns to face her.

"Alright, lady," he says, "this is your stop."

"What do I owe you?"

"Sixteen-fifty."

Handing him a twenty, she tells him to keep the change. Putting the manual in her shoulder bag, she steps from the cab, making her way to the lobby doors of her hotel. _'The Sixties,' _Emma thinks, _'The T-Virus goes that far back'. _She shakes her head in disbelief, pulling open the lobby doors. Lost deep in thought she stops by the elevators, another man waits there. _'The virus is in the hands of four factions: Umbrella, The Family, the Russian and Chinese governments... And God knows who else. We need to get this out to the public before it's too spread out to pull back.'_

At that moment, the elevator opens and Emma steps inside with the man. She hits the button for her floor.

_'Maybe it's already too late.'_

**Detroit, MI (02/03/1999)**

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Leon and Helena look over Anthony Shafer's diary. Excitedly, Leon flips back and forth, pouring over all the information inside. Finally, Leon stops, near the end of the journal.

"Listen to this," Leon says, "_December 24th: I've stumbled into something that's above me. America is on the verge on something unspeakable. Somebody – some group – is pulling the strings behind the scenes, and they have no intention of relenting. It's become apparent to me that what happened in Raccoon City is going to happen once more. And if somebody can't pull the veil back, and soon, then what struck that lost city is certain to strike another, and another. These are reckless, dangerous people, and if they are not exposed, the whole world is in danger._"

"Jesus," Helena mumbles under her breath.

"There's an inscription on the inside of the cover," Leon observes, "_Should this journal find its way into responsible hands, all of the details of my investigation are in security box #21B. 1227 W Jefferson St, River Rouge, Detroit..._ That's it! We got it!"

Leon slides the notebook into a pocket on the inside of his jacket, zipping it closed. He looks over at Helena – both of them have a jubilant smile. This shot in the dark actually panned out. They have some tangible evidence, and a new lead. Letting out a sigh of relief, Leon locks eyes with Helena for a moment. Finally, she breaks it, looking down at the floor.

"You did it, Leon," she says, "how did you even think to look there?"

"It's where I used to stash my weed."

Helena bursts out laughing, falling back on the bed. Leon laughs too, looking down at his partner. Her hair spread out over the bare mattress, she seems to glow, her cheeks reddening a little as she laughs. Leon, in spite of himself, is a little stricken, seeing Helena in a way he has never seen her before. As though some other agent has control of him, he leans over her. Putting a hand on her cheek, Leon presses his lips to hers. For a moment she freezes, then relents. Kissing her, his other hand clasps her waist, running up towards her chest. It runs over her breast, not grabbing, just passing over softly. Helena's hand rises and presses against his chest, not in an embrace - though she kisses him back - but gently pushing him back. Leon takes her hand and pins it to the bed firmly. They exchange one long, passionate kiss before Helena turns her head to the side.

"Leon," she whispers, "stop."

Ignoring her, he kisses her neck.

"Stop," she repeats, more firmly.

Pulling back slightly, Leon lets out an irritated sigh. Still pinning her hand down, he looks into her eyes.

"Do we seriously have to play this game?" he says.

"It's no game," Helena replies apologetically, "I don't mix my personal and professional life."

"Is it about Ada?"

"No," she says directly, "I told you. We have to keep our relationship strictly professional."

She pulls her hand from his and they both sit up, looking uncomfortably in opposite directions. For awhile they exchange no words, just sit in the vacuous silence.

"Don't take it personally," Helena says with the same apologetic tone.

"How could -" Leon stops himself, furrowing his brow, "Don't worry about it."

"Come on," she says conclusively, rising from the bed, "This mission has only just begun."

**Eastern Russia (02/03/1999)**

The long, narrow hallway is dimly lit by the green back-up lights, creating an eerie glow. Chris in the lead, Jill follows behind him, clutching her Beretta side-arm. They move silently, passing below the dim green lights, listening for any approaching attackers. The prison seems as though it has been long abandoned, the iron walls rusted, dirt and debris cover the floor, crunching softly below their boots. A suffocating must is in the air. The oppressive atmosphere weighs down on Jill. _'Tyumen is forty years old, a relic from the Soviet era,' _Jill contemplates, looking around the claustrophobic hall, _'Who knows what horrors have taken place here'_. Tyumen was one of the most notorious prison in Russia history. Political dissidents, taken from there homes, were brought here never to be seen or heard from again.

Chris stops in his tracks. Turning to Jill, he gestures, and they duck into a small office. Rotting wooden shelves, a rusted bucket, and cobwebs cover the inside of the room. Apparently it's some long abandoned custodial room. With their backs up against the wall, the peer through the crack of the door. The sounds of approaching soldiers reverberate through the door at the end of the hall. As the soldiers open the rusted doors, the high-pitched squeak echoes down the length of the hall. A moment later and they hear the door close behind them with a heavy metallic bang. Through the slit of the door they watch the guards pass by. When they are far enough away from the door, Chris turns to Jill.

"Should we let them pass," Chris whispers, "keep our cover? Or do we take them out?"

"Better to thin em' out," Jill replies, "They're going to find the bodies soon enough."

"You're right," Chris concludes, "let's do this."

Silently, they exit the custodial closet, watching the two Russian soldiers as they walk away. Side-by-side, they train their weapons on them. When they're both confident of their aim, Chris nods and they fire. The heads of the soldiers snap forward, blood spraying outwards, and they fall face first on the floor.

"Neutralised," Jill says.

They spin on their heels, heading to the door the two Russians had come from. Pulling it open, they step into a large room. It looks like what once constituted a prison cafeteria, but now contains a stockpile of crates and wooden boxes, with a few metallic lunch tables left behind. The ceiling looms high overhead – two floors – and around them, rows of cells. As soon as they step inside, they're spotted by a group of four soldiers. For a split-second, they seem perplexed, but then one points at them and barks out a command. As the guards raise their guns and open fire, Jill and Chris break right, sprinting then diving behind a wall of wooden crates. Gunfire crackles, splinters of wood raining overhead. The hail of gunfire echoes in the cavernous room, creating an incomprehensible cacophony. Jill collects herself, popping up from behind her cover she fires, hitting one soldier with two quick shots in the centre of his chest. She ducks back as a volley of gunfire sails past, ricocheting off of the iron bars of a cell behind.

The three remaining Russians all take cover: two behind concrete pillars, the third behind an over-turned iron table. Chris and Jill pop up, firing a volley of shots. Jill's gunfire hits her target's cover, chunks of concrete exploding from the pillar, she hears a hollow click. _'Clip's empty'. _Ducking back, she pops out her magazine and swiftly snaps in another. Chris' first two shots hit the pillar, but as his target turns around his cover to return fire, Chris puts a bullet in his gut. The soldier lets out a cry and falls backwards clutching his abdomen. Ducking low, he peers out over the boxes. The man from behind the table lobs a grenade towards them. Leaping up, Chris snatches it out of the air and throws it back. It hits the over-turned table and explodes, slamming the table into man behind it with incredible force and settling on top of his motionless body.

With her new magazine, Jill throws her arms over the top of the crate. Her first two shots pock-mark the pillar. She can just see the opposing soldier on the opposite side, his back against his concrete cover. Silence falls and they can distinctly here the panting of the remaining soldier, and the agonised moans of the one Chris had shot in the stomach. But they suddenly become aware of another moaning sound, and _another_. Keeping her gun trained on her target, she glances around the room. _'There are people in the cells on the second floor,' _Jill observes, _'No, not people... Zombies'._ She turns her gaze back to the remaining soldier.

Jill and Chris aim their guns at the pillar, waiting for him to make a move. Finally, he pops out from his cover and fires at them, but they respond with a hail of gunfire. Shots rip into his chest leaving bloody holes across his torso and he falls into a limp pile on the floor. At this point they notice the remaining soldier. One hand clutching his bleeding stomach, the other holds some sort of a two-way radio. He begins screaming into it in Russian.

"Shit!" Chris exclaims, "He's warning them!"

Jill and Chris unleash a torrent of bullets. They rip through the fallen man's body and he drops the radio to the floor. They come out from behind their cover, guns lowered.

"Did he reach them?" Jill says.

"I don't know."

Suddenly, red lights come on and a buzzing alarm screams around them with deafening volume. As they stand in the centre of the cafeteria another sound rings out. With a metallic clatter, all the prison cell doors slide open around them.

"They're opening all the cells," Chris says, his eyes darting about warily.

"And letting whatever was inside them _out_."

**Detroit, MI (02/03/1999)**

Ada stands on a rooftop, her hair blowing below the spinning propeller of the helicopter by her side. In a pair of tight black pants with tall, spike-heeled boots, she looks over the cityscape. Her hands on her hips, a series of satchels are around her belt. One one side, a modest hand gun, the other a grappling gun. A tight black leather jacket is zipped up just past her breasts, where the top of a red blouse is visible. Her wide hazel eyes look across the panorama ponderously. _'Where are you Leon?' _Ada wonders, _'And what have you gotten yourself into this time'_. For a brief moment, the faintest of smiles crosses her face. Next to her, a man stands in military fatigues. A rugged, unshaven man, he holds the rank of Colonel. She knows him well. He too is a member of the Family. He looks over the city as well, then turns to face Ada.

"So you're here to check in on our insurgents?" he asks, his voice deep and gravelly.

"That's the plan," she replies flatly, still looking over the city.

"Well, there's been a slight change in plans."

Ada turns to him with a curious expression.

"What change of plans?"

"Your assignment is the same," he says, then looks away, "but the brass have decided not to take any chances... They still want you to keep track of the targets – for as long as they survive."

Gesturing for her to follow, he walks to the edge of the rooftop, putting a foot up on the edge and pointing down. Ada steps beside him, looking down to the street below. Ten floors below them, in the middle of the street, stands a huge cylindrical pod. Ada looks back at the soldier, who wears an eager grin. Pulling a black remote from a satchel on his belt, he flips up a security latch then presses a red button beneath it. A light blinks on the pod below and two doors slide open. Subtly, Ada's eyes grow wider as a 9-foot giant emerges from the pod. Stepping to the the street, the huge BOW is clad in some sort of black body armour.

"What is it?" Ada asks, "A _Tyrant?_"

"A _Nemesis_ Tyrant," the soldier replies, "virtually bullet-proof. I don't know what the fucking science is, but supposedly it can find them wherever they go."

"Leon has killed things like this before."

"Not like _this_," he corrects, "Nothing short of a fuckin' cruise missile could kill this son-of-a-bitch."

With a slight chuckle, he looks at Ada, who wears her same cryptic expression. _'I knew your crusade was going to get you killed sooner or later, Leon,' _Ada thinks, _'I hope you're prepared for this'._


End file.
